


30 Day Drabble Challenge - Forever

by idelthoughts



Category: Forever (TV)
Genre: 30 day drabble challenge, F/M, Gen, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-27
Updated: 2014-12-01
Packaged: 2018-02-22 22:16:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 31
Words: 33,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2523689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idelthoughts/pseuds/idelthoughts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fic a day for 30 days.  Every chapter is a completely different story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Table of Contents

**Author's Note:**

> These were originally published [on my tumblr](http://truthisademurelady.tumblr.com/search/30+day+drabble+challenge) for the 30 Day Drabble Challenge.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A table of contents with summary, genre, and characters for each fic.

[ **Day 1:  Beginning** ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2523689/chapters/5607884)

  * Summary:      _As a child, Henry had always loved his father's pocket watch.  
_
  * Genre:           Gen, Henry in History  (England, 1783)
  * Characters:    Henry Morgan, OCs (Henry's mother and father)



 

**[Day 2: Accusation](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2523689/chapters/5607908) **

  * Summary:      _When 'Dad' became 'Henry.'_    
                     The transition isn’t easy for either of them.
  * Genre:           Angst, Henry in History (New York, 1969)
  * Characters:    Abe, Henry Morgan, OC (Abe's girlfriend of the week)



 

**[Day 3: Restless](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2523689/chapters/5613419) **

  * Summary:      _Somewhere along the line, Jo started doing paperwork in Henry's office._    
                     Now if only she could shake Bentley from her mind, she could finish the damned report.
  * Genre:           Gen, Angst, Missing Scene (1x06)
  * Characters:    Henry Morgan, Jo Martinez



 

  
[ **Day 4:  Snowflake** ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2523689/chapters/5625542)

  * Summary:      _You’re a special snowflake, Henry._    
                     Hanson is concerned for Henry’s lack of self-preservation.
  * Genre:           Episode Tag (1x07)
  * Characters:    Henry Morgan, Mike Hanson



 

  
[ **Day 5:  Prepared** ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2523689/chapters/5636408)

  * Summary:      _Not in front of Abe.  Not like this._    
                     A car accident wasn’t the ideal way for Abe to discover Henry's immortality. He was far too young for this.
  * Genre:           Action,  Angst, Drama, Henry death-fic, Henry in History (Adirondack Mountains, 1958)
  * Characters:    Henry Morgan, Abe, Abigail (referenced)



 

**[Day 6: Haze](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2523689/chapters/5648594) **

  * Summary:      _Go west, old man._  
                     Henry has to leave New York again, and California is calling to him.
  * Genre:           Gen, Henry in History (San Francisco, 1936)
  * Characters:    Henry Morgan



 

  
[ **Day 7:  Wind** ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2523689/chapters/5660840)

  * Summary:      _“I don’t know, I might have been a good sailor.”_  
                      Jo is over for dinner, and she’s going to find out as much about Henry as she can.  A very light Forever/Hornblower crossover.
  * Genre:           Pre-ship, Gen, Fluff, Crossover
  * Characters:    Henry Morgan, Jo Martinez



 

  
[ **Day 8:  Flame** ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2523689/chapters/5674091)

  * Summary:      _Everybody's daddy has a job of some kind._  
                     Jo’s childhood perspective on her family isn’t a clear one, but she’s starting to figure things out.
  * Genre:           Angst, Jo in History (New York, Jo aged 10)
  * Characters:    Jo Martinez, OC (Jo’s mother and father)



 

  
[ **Day 9:  Formal** ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2523689/chapters/5689220)

  * Summary:      _What was he going to do with ten identical waistcoats?_  
                     The menswear shop clerk thinks Henry is cute, but can’t figure out how he keeps losing all his clothes.
  * Genre:           Humour, Crack
  * Characters:    Henry Morgan, OC (shop clerk)



 

  
[ **Day 10:  Knowledge** ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2523689/chapters/5700833)

  * Summary:      _Henry had her gun, and there was nothing Jo could do about it._  
                     They’re trapped, but Henry seems to think this is his way out.
  * Genre:           Drama, Action, Henry death-fic
  * Characters:    Henry Morgan, Jo Martinez



 

  
[ **Day 11:  Move** ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2523689/chapters/5715041)

  * Summary:      _They were both old men, in their own ways._  
                     After a long absence, Abe sees Henry again.
  * Genre:           Drama, Angst
  * Characters:    Henry Morgan, Abe



 

  
[ **Day 12:  Silver** ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2523689/chapters/5727929)

  * Summary:      _Twenty-five years is a long time, and not near long enough._    
                     It’s Henry and Abigail’s anniversary, and every year it’s getting harder for her to pretend this will always work.
  * Genre:           Drama, Angst, Henry in History (1974)
  * Characters:    Henry Morgan, Abigail Morgan



 

  
[ **Day 13:  Denial** ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2523689/chapters/5739242)

  * Summary:      _Human Resources at the New York City Medical Examiner's Office is a nightmare._  
                     It’s Friday, and the HR Manager really doesn’t want to deal with their Chief ME’s nudity issue.
  * Genre:           Humour
  * Characters:    OC (HR Manager), Henry Morgan (referenced)



 

  
[ **Day 14:  Companion** ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2523689/chapters/5750789)

  * Summary:      _“It’s just a game, Henry. And you and me—we get to play it over, and over, and over again.”_  
                     Adam wants Henry’s attention, and he’s going to kill Henry as many times as it takes to get it.
  * Genre:           Suspense, Drama, Angst, Action, Henry death-fic
  * Characters:    Henry Morgan, Jo Martinez, Adam, Mike Hanson, Lucas Wahl



 

  
[ **Day 15:  Order** ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2523689/chapters/5764538)

  * Summary:      _Monopoly is a cut-throat game, and Lucas aims to win.  
_
  * Genre:           Crack, Humour
  * Characters:    Henry Morgan, Jo Martinez, Lucas Wahl, Abe



 

  
[ **Day 16:  Thanks** ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2523689/chapters/5782703)

  * Summary:      _All these years of life, and a man had never desired him before. Henry was startled by how much he was intrigued by the idea.  
_
  * Genre:           Romance (M/M), Henry in History (New York, 1906, ep 1x03 flashback)
  * Characters:    Henry Morgan, James Carter



 

  
[ **Day 17:  Look** ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2523689/chapters/5790347)

  * Summary:      _Dr. Morgan, the new boss, is really, really into his job._  
                     Lucas and the staff are almost certain Dr. Morgan has moved into his office permanently.
  * Genre:           Humour, Fluff, Henry in History (New York, 2011)
  * Characters:    Henry Morgan, Lucas Wahl



 

  
[ **Day 18:  Summer** ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2523689/chapters/5804495)

  * Summary:      _With love from your devoted wife, Nora._    
                     She writes to Henry at the asylum, because Henry no longer wants to see her.
  * Genre:           Drama, Angst, Tragedy, Henry in History (England, 1816)
  * Characters:    Nora Morgan, Henry Morgan (referenced)



 

  
[ **Day 19:  Transformation** ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2523689/chapters/5815601)

  * Summary:      _Women's fashion trends are hard to keep up with._  
                     Henry might have a bit of a staring problem when it comes to beautiful women.
  * Genre:           Humour, Henry in History (New York, 1920), Episode Scene (1x08)
  * Characters:    Henry Morgan, Jo Martinez, Iona Payne (referenced)



 

**[Day 20: Diamond](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2523689/chapters/5828618) **

  * Summary:      _Jo would have a hell of a lot more than a hangover to regret in the morning._    
                     It would have been her tenth anniversary today. Instead Jo’s drinking and making bad decisions with Henry.
  * Genre:           Angst, H/C, Drama, Romance (M/F)
  * Characters:    Henry Morgan, Jo Martinez



 

  
[ **Day 21:  Tremble** ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2523689/chapters/5842088)

  * Summary:      _It wasn’t every day Henry got to send his own murderer to prison._  
                     Henry goes to court to testify, even when he should be running.
  * Genre:           Drama, Henry in History (New York, 1957)
  * Characters:    Henry Morgan



 

  
[ **Day 22:  Thousand** ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2523689/chapters/5855156)

  * Summary:      _Nothing is too insignificant to be an X-File._  
                     Mulder has noticed a strange trend in the NYPD’s public indecency case files.  (X-Files/Forever crossover)
  * Genre:           Crossover, Humour, Crack
  * Characters:    Fox Mulder, Dana Scully, Henry Morgan (referenced)



 

  
[ **Day 23:  Letters** ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2523689/chapters/5877005)

  * Summary:      _Sex is simple. Feelings are much more complicated._  
                     Iona writes Henry with an offer, and he decides to take it.
  * Genre:           Romance, M/F, Episode Tag (1x08)
  * Characters:    Henry Morgan, Iona Payne



 

  
[ **Day 24:  Outside** ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2523689/chapters/5885222)

  * Summary:      _It was dark in the coal mines, and hot as hell._  
                     Henry joins the rescue party when a mineshaft collapses in Risca.
  * Genre:           Drama, Action, Henry death-fic, Henry in History (Risca, Wales, 1860)
  * Characters:    Henry Morgan



 

  
[ **Day 25:  Winter** ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2523689/chapters/5897090)

  * Summary:      _He couldn't keep them both under glass forever._    
                     It’s hard for Henry to watch Abigail and Abe take even the smallest risks.
  * Genre:           Fluff, Angst, Henry in History (New York, 1953)
  * Characters:    Henry Morgan, Abigail Morgan, Abe



 

  
[ **Day 26:  Mad** ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2523689/chapters/5907812)

  * Summary:      _Swim and run, swim and run, swim and run._  
                     Henry’s been in Bedlam for three years now, and even death is no escape.
  * Genre:           Horror, Drama, Action, Henry death-fic, Henry in History (Bethlem Hospital, London, 1818)
  * Characters:    Henry Morgan



 

  
[ **Day 27:  Simple** ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2523689/chapters/5920256)

  * Summary:      _It wasn't the road Lucas thought he would take, but his life was still pretty good._  
                     Lucas appreciates life at the NY City Medical Examiners Office, and his growing friendship with one Dr. Henry Morgan.
  * Genre:           Humour, Fluff
  * Characters:    Lucas Wahl, Henry Morgan



 

  
[ **Day 28:  Promise** ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2523689/chapters/5926145)

  * Summary:      _Abe is gone, and Jo is going to be there for Henry whether he likes it or not. If only she could get him to talk to her._    
                     When she catches Henry trying to leave town after Abe's death, he tells her the truth.  It’s not easy for her to accept, but she'll try for his sake.
  * Genre:           Tragedy, Angst, H/C
  * Characters:    Henry Morgan, Jo Martinez



 

  
[ **Day 29:  Sunset** ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2523689/chapters/5944676)

  * Summary:      _Don't knock it until you've tried it, Hanson._  
                     Hanson and his wife experiment with some things she learned in 50 Shades of Grey.  It might not have been the best idea.
  * Genre:           Humour, Crack
  * Characters:    Mike Hanson, OC (Hanson’s wife)



 

  
[ **Day 30:  Future** ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2523689/chapters/5964353)

  * Summary:      _Who ever thought they'd see the day when Henry Morgan hosted the office Christmas party?_  
                     Jo’s learning things about Henry, Hanson’s kids are trashing the place, and Lucas is eventually going to get someone to kiss him under the mistletoe.  And Abe - well, he’s got some hope for Henry’s future after all.
  * Genre:           Fluff, Humour, happy fuzzy feels all around
  * Characters:    Ensemble cast



**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully this makes it easier for folks to find what they're looking for, as I've had many comments that it was a little hard to navigate as a multi-chapter fic. Oh, to go back in time and make this a series...


	2. Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry had always loved his father's pocket watch.

“Papa?”

Henry wandered into the library. He knew he wasn’t supposed to, but the clatter of the carriage, and the scuffle of the door and shoes in the entrance hall, all of it promised of seeing his father again. It drove him from the cosy bedclothes into the chill air, numbing his little feet as he crept downstairs.

“Papa?” he called again.

Movement from the seat by the fireplace—his father, with his mother tucked up against him, both of them cuddled by the fire. They looked around at him as he stood in the doorway.

His mother sighed. “What are you doing from bed at this hour?”

His feet were cold, and he wanted to be there with them, warm in the middle of their embrace. And before his father had left, he’d promised Henry a song, the one where he dandled him upon his knee, bouncing him up and down like he were a horse. And after a long trip, he always came home with sweets in his pockets. Henry’s lip trembled, because he did not know how to say these things, and he quailed under the disappointed sound of his mother’s sigh.

“Oh, come here, Henry,” his father said, and his mother chuckled and kissed his father on the cheek.

Henry broke into a run, grinning and throwing himself upon his parents, burrowing between them so that he was surrounded by them as they shifted to accommodate him. His knees, bared by his awry nightgown, burned hot in the glow of the fire, and the warmth of his father and mother defrosted the rest of him. 

They talked over him, the humming words of adults that bore little consequence to him, but were a comforting background noise nonetheless. He rested his head on the scratchy wool of his father’s waistcoat and pried open one pocket with chubby fingers.

“What do you think you will find in there, sir?” his father rumbled. He sounded serious, but Henry knew he was teasing.

“Sweets, Papa.”

“Not in that one.” 

Henry dutifully checked the other pocket, and beneath his father’s golden pocket watch, a little boiled sweet in waxed paper. He popped it into his mouth as fast as he could before his fortunes could change, sucking on the sweet and tart flavour, and his father gave him a doting kiss on the forehead.

While he worried at the sweet with his tongue, he took the heavy weight of the golden pocket watch in the palm of his hand. He opened it with all the care his father had taught him, marvelling at the little hands that splayed in all directions—random to his eye, though his father pointed out the little markings, repeating _one, two, three_ with patient care, on and on, while Henry clutched the watch tight.

He put his finger on the little dot in the centre so that the second hand spun around it. The soft tick pulsed in his hand while the hum of voices thrummed in his body, and his mother stroked his hair with soft fingers, lulling him. 

His eyes grew heavy, and Henry fell asleep to the steady pulse of seconds, never ending, never stopping.


	3. Accusation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Dad became Henry.

“What does your roommate do?”

Abe raised his head from the couch to look at Rosemary, who was spreading peanut butter on a piece of toast. Her long legs disappeared under the t-shirt she’d appropriated for their morning-after laze, and her long brown hair hung loose down her back.

“My roommate?” he repeated stupidly.

“Henry?” She rolled her eyes at him. “Was the sex that good that you forgot about him?”

He dropped his head back onto the couch. 

Well, there it was. _Roommate._

It was a simple question, but it was a blunt reminder of why so few people were introduced into his private life. Three years at college had been a blessed relief from the arms-length distances, but now he was back in the strange little world of mundane impossibility and guarded privacy.

The wound of Abigail leaving had been a deep one—for both of them, if he were honest—and though Abe had made all kinds of post-college excuses about moving in due to cash flow and job prospects, eighteen months later, with savings in the bank and a good job, he was still here. 

“You should call me Henry,” he’d said to Abe on the first night, slouched in a chair with a hand over his eyes.

“I don’t know if I can.” Even though he was conscious of the fact that, at twenty-five, he looked more like a little brother to his father than a son, it was hard to let go of that last vestige of his fading childhood. “Dad—“

“Don’t.” Henry looked up. His eyes were red. “Abraham, you really should go.”

“I’m not going to.” 

Henry levered himself out of the chair. “You will eventually.” 

He’d grabbed his coat and left, and not come back for a day. When he had, it was with a sheepish apology for his maudlin self-pity, and little else was said about it. 

Even so, Abe had called him Henry since. And now he didn’t know if he stayed because he wanted to, or because he was proving a point. He could be as stubborn as his father.

Rosemary sat on the couch at his feet, and he moved his legs to accommodate her. The pleasant memories of their night erased some of his melancholy.

“He’s a mortician,” Abe answered at last. He sat up and grabbed at her wrist, pulling it towards him and stealing a bite of her toast while she gaped in surprise.

“He’s a—hey!” she protested, rescuing the toast from him with a playful smack on his arm. “But seriously, a mortician? That’s so creepy.” 

Abe shrugged. It was, but he’d grown used to Henry’s obsession with death, moving from one morbid career to the next every few years. “Yep.”

Rosemary gave him a sly smile, and he stroked her cheek. “So how long is he gone?”

“He said he wouldn’t be back until Monday.”

“So that’s another whole day you have the house to yourself.” She leaned towards him. “Want to go back to bed?”

Abe nodded and took the invitation to kiss her. Might as well; he doubted he’d see her again after this, so he’d best make the most of it while he could.


	4. Restless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Somewhere along the line, Jo started doing paperwork in Henry's office. (missing scene from 1x06)

_tap tap tap tap —_

Jo looked up from her paperwork at Henry. He was gazing off into space, a pen between his fingers, tapping rhythmically on the half-finished report in front of him. She cleared her throat pointedly. Henry took no notice.

_tap tap tap tap —_

“Henry,” she snapped.

He startled, locking onto her, the pen pausing in mid swing. “Yes, Detective?”

“Do you mind?” She pointed to the pen, and he looked at it as though it had materialized in his hand.

“Oh. Apologies.”

They both bowed their heads to their respective work again - Jo to her firearms discharge report, and Henry to the cause of death certificates for Mark Bentley. By unspoken agreement, they’d gotten together in Henry’s office to finish the final details of the case, hoping to put it to bed before the end of the day. Maybe Henry was hosting her out of charity, but Jo suspected he wanted the company as much as she did; this case had rattled him, too.

She rubbed her dry eyes, exhausted beyond all reason. And waiting for her, as it did every time she shut her eyes, was Mark Bentley’s slack face, and the blood oozing from the four neat holes in his chest. Over his heart, clustered together, tidy as holes in a shooting range bullseye. 

Jo bent to her report again, focusing on the words and not the gnawing pain in her stomach. She just had to concentrate, and this would be done and over. Unfortunately, the words weren’t coming. 

_tap tap tap tap —_

Jo sat back in her chair with a sigh, and this time Henry noticed right away, putting the pen down on the desk with a guilty frown. 

“I am sorry.”

Jo crossed her arms, and looked behind her to the darkened morgue. It was late, and everyone had left but for the two of them. Henry looked as shitty as she felt, with dark circles under his eyes that stood out like bruises in the mellow lighting of his office, and she could see from the half-empty page that he was getting as little done as she was.

She didn’t want to be here anymore. She needed out—they both needed out. Paperwork would always be here tomorrow.

“Why don’t we go get a drink?”

Henry looked up at her but didn’t say anything, just inspected her like he expected to find something important. She was growing used to his invasive staring, though she still didn’t much care for it. 

“Henry. Being creepy again.”

“Ah, right,” he said, and as usual there was little apology in his tone. He looked down at his report, and then with a dramatic sigh, shut the file. “Yes. I’d like that.”

They stood, and Jo pulled her jacket on while Henry fetched his overcoat and scarf. As they exited, she tried not to look to the side at the bank of fridges where Mark Bentley’s body lay. She only half-succeeded, and could hear in Henry’s obvious silence that he’d caught her aborted glance. 

Bless his cotton socks, he decided to keep his mouth shut for once.


	5. Snowflake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You're a special snowflake, Henry. (1x07 post-episode tag)

Prying open a ribcage was significantly harder with only one good arm.

After ordering the morgue staff around all day, standing over their shoulders and orchestrating their movements until even easy-going Lucas looked like he would punch something—probably him—Henry called it and headed home early. He could practically hear the sigh of relief behind him as he left.

He could admit he’d been a little impatient, but the dangling, useless limb was wearing on him. He didn’t like being hampered like this.

He stopped in at the precinct office to drop off a report to Jo, but she was in the middle of a call and waved him off apologetically. Just as well, he was looking forward to getting home. His arm ached from overuse, as he’d pushed it too far over the course of the day.

Day one, and already he wanted to shoot himself just to stop dealing with the irritation. The icy dip in the chilly October waters of the Hudson would be worth it.

He punched the elevator button, mulling it over. He hadn’t committed suicide—and that poisoning didn’t count, that was research—in, oh, decades. Maybe a century? Eventually the futility of it had dulled the hope it might stick, and he’d passed through that into other more mind-numbing coping mechanisms. 

Well. Best not to dwell on that. It was a long time ago now.

But it was tempting. He could inject himself, something painless, and poof—no more injury. He’d have to wear the sling, do some pretending for a while, make claims to good painkillers as he worked to cover up the increased mobility, but—

“Doc?”

Henry turned, startled from his thoughts. Behind him, Detective Hanson stood with his coat over his arm, also on his way home.

“Detective Hanson, a pleasure.” Henry offered him a polite nod. 

The doors to the elevator slid open and they both stepped inside. When the doors closed, Hanson cleared his throat. Henry glanced at him—he was shifting foot to foot in discomfort of some kind. He was gearing himself up for something. Henry waited, but Hanson didn’t speak, and he grew impatient with the fidgeting.

“Yes?” Henry prompted.

“Ah, yeah,” Hanson coughed. “I ah—I don’t want to—well anyway.“ He stopped his awkward explanation and handed over a card to Henry. “Here. I thought maybe you could use this.”

Henry took it with his good hand and studied the small white rectangle. _Jane Noethe, PhD PC Licensed Psychologist._

Henry raised an eyebrow and looked back up at Hanson, who was staring down at his feet. “I’m not quite sure what to say, Detective.” 

Hanson shrugged. “Doc, I don’t want to make assumptions. But Jo told me what happened out there, and…” He trailed off, and finally met Henry’s eye. “We all have our days, you know? But you keep—look, maybe you should talk to someone about that death wish of yours.”

Henry tried not to smile. The irony of Hanson bringing this to him as he was casually contemplating his suicide was not lost on him. And Hanson’s sincerity was touching, frankly. “I see.”

“The world only gets one of you, y’know?” Hanson scuffed his shoe, debating something, and then shrugging again. “You’re not the only guy who’s ever—I’m just saying, we’ve all been there. Anyway, she’s good.”

Henry fingered the card again, and then tucked it into his breast pocket. “Thank you. I’ll consider it.”

Hanson nodded, and looked back to the elevator doors. His relief that the conversation was over was palpable. “Okay.”

The doors opened to the ground floor, and they stepped out, Hanson hurrying off to his car and Henry to the street to head for the subway station.

Henry winced as he reached for the glass doors and jostled his arm. The blasted thing was a nuisance, but perhaps he should put up with it. Pain and healing being a part of life, and all that.


	6. Prepared

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not in front of Abe. Not like this.

The deer came out of nowhere. Henry could swear the damned thing materialized out of thin air. 

One minute the dark, winding empty road, the next a brown blur and antlers coming through the windshield. Henry spun the steering wheel, trying to avoid it at the last second, but it was too late. He would probably remember those wide brown eyes and black muzzle, overexposed in the headlights, for the rest of his life.

Abe’s shriek was piercing over the screech of the tires on the road, and then the car flipped. Time stood still.

“Hold on!” Henry yelled.

They hit the ground.

Upside down first; metal crumpled and gravity went askew, the car sliding and rolling with relentless momentum. Then the deafening smash of wood and brush as the car flew over the embankment and down into the ravine below, shaking them like the coins in Abe’s precious piggy bank.

A final slide, and crash, and then all was silent but for the ticking of overheated metal, and Abe’s frantic breathing.

Abe was breathing. He was alive. Oh thank god, he was alive.

“Abe. Abraham? Talk to me.” Henry blinked blood from his eyes and wiped at them with his arm, trying to clear his vision. Everything swam around in sickly fashion—he had a concussion, most likely, and a bad one. 

A whimper. “My arm hurts.”

Henry struggled upright from where he was draped over the steering wheel, which was now a bare six inches from his chest. The front windshield was smashed, covering everything with glass, and the roof was caved in enough that he could barely sit upright. Abe had been tossed clear to the back seat, and was curled up along the bench seat amid their strewn camping gear, shredded upholstery, and a shower of glass shards. Henry twisted as far as he could, but his body was pinned, and he had to settle for looking over his shoulder. 

Abe clutched his left arm to his chest. The forearm was visibly bent; broken, though not poking through the skin. But he was alive—by some miracle, he was alive, and Henry choked on a hysterical sob of relief before he pulled himself together, recognizing he had to keep his calm for Abe’s sake. 

“It’s alright. It’ll be alright,” Henry murmured. His speech was slurred. Bad sign. 

“I’m scared,” Abe sniffed. 

Henry tried to twist further and reach for Abe, but a wave of sickening pain screamed up through his body, and—

He came to with Abe shaking his shoulder, his pale white face hovering close, gangly pre-teen body filling what little space remained in the crumpled front end of the car. 

A long, bloody scratch ran the length of Abe’s cheek, and Henry frowned at it, lifting his hand to Abe’s face. It took Henry took a moment to remember where he was, and what had happened.

Camping trip. Car accident. Abe’s arm, broken. He tried to straighten in his seat.

Another wave of pain took him and he grit his teeth, trying not to pass out. The front end of the car had buckled and crushed the lower half of his body, trapping him in a vise-grip hold. He didn’t try to move again—he needed to be conscious. A brisk gust of fall air swirled through the gaping hole where the windshield had been, and it sharpened his senses for a precious moment, helping him focus.

Abe’s breath was fast and shallow, his eyes glassy. Henry put a hand on Abe’s head and pulled him to his chest. 

“Shh. Take a deep breath. Nice and slow. Good, once more.” He stroked Abe’s hair, trying to calm him. “It’s alright, it’s alright.”

It was not alright, of course. He knew the signs well enough—already he was numb from shock, his muscles harder to control, his heart slowing, his mind dark around the corners.

“Abraham, can you move? Can you walk? Anything else besides your arm injured?” Henry moved his hands over Abe’s body, trying to feel as much as he could. Chest and ribs intact; his spindly legs, drawn up close to his body, seemed fine. He couldn’t see any blood, though who knew what injuries lay beneath the heavy jacket and denim trousers.

Abe shook his head. The bent arm was still hugged tight to his chest, and his body shook. Shock was setting in. “Just my arm.”

Henry breathed a sigh, his head swimming, the copious blood still seeping down and trying to fill his vision. He must have hit the steering wheel hard. He dared not touch his forehead; he didn’t want to know. He knew it was bad, and that was enough. He was going to die. 

Oh, please, not in front of Abe.

“Abe? Love, you have to listen to me.” He stroked Abe’s neck and back. “You have to listen, this is important.”

Abe lifted his face. It was stained with blood and tears. His eyes darted to Henry’s forehead, and then away, and then back. 

Why did it have to be a head wound? It made it so hard to think. He tried to sort his scrambled brain and put his thoughts in order. Get Abe to safety. The roads through the Adirondacks in fall were well travelled enough—they weren’t the only campers out here chasing the last of the warm weather. Get Abe to climb to the road, and he could flag someone down. Maybe a few hours wait at most.

“I know it hurts, but you have to get up to the road. Okay?” 

“Can’t you come with me?” 

The plaintive question tore at him, guilt and fear overlaying his fuzzy thoughts.

“I can’t.” He shook his head, and the dizziness and pain threatened to send him under again. He clung to consciousness.

“Please don’t make me go.”

“Abraham, you must. Someone will come by eventually, and you need to be by the road so they can see you.”

Abe lifted his head again. “I can get help?”

Henry smiled as best he could, encouraging the small spark of hope. “Yes. You can get help.”

Abe stirred, shifting, and then stiffening as his arm moved, and he curled up, crying. “I can’t.”

“You can. I know you can. My brave boy.” 

He tried to lift his hand to stroke Abe’s cheek, but his muscles wouldn’t respond properly. It was going too fast—he must be bleeding more than he thought. He had to get Abe to go, get him away, and to a place where he could seek help. He could explain his disappearance and healing later. He’d figure it out somehow. But he didn’t want Abe to see. Not that. It was too much, too hard.

“Abe, leave,” he mumbled, but it was barely intelligible.

“Daddy?” Abe’s face came closer, his voice sailing into a frantic high pitch. 

Abe hadn’t called him Daddy in years—at twelve, Abe now considered himself quite the adult and above such things. When was it last? Seven, or eight? After that, it was always Dad. Pops for a short while, until the sour look Abigail gave him every time discouraged him. Henry smiled, thinking of Abigail, waiting for them at home. Abigail hated camping. So did Henry, but Abe wanted those boy scout badges so bad, he hadn’t the heart to say no—

“Daddy, are you okay? Daddy, please.” Abe was sobbing, hysterical.

The fond memories wavered and faded, and the present came back to him. He blinked, trying to grasp at his fading life. Not yet. Not in front of Abe.

But it was coming for him, whether Abe was here or not. He had to tell him, make sure he was ready. He’d never wanted this for Abe, had never wanted this to touch his life. He’d pictured some long-distant future conversation about his youthful, unchanging features, but not this. Never this.

“Abe.” He was numb, his tongue clumsy and thick. “Abe, no matter what you see, I’ll be back.” His thoughts were dissipating like a cloud in the wind. “I’ll disappear, but I’m not gone. I love you. I won’t ever leave you. Get to the road.”

“What?” Abe clutched his shirt, shaking Henry hard. “Daddy?”

Oh, his poor boy. “Get to the road.”

“Daddy, no,” Abe sobbed. “No, don’t leave me.” He clawed at Henry’s shirt, burying his face in Henry’s neck. 

Henry tried to hold him, but his arms wouldn’t move. He felt the last threads slipping away, his ears full of Abe’s frantic pleading.

Abe was a reasonable boy. Once his father’s body disappeared, he would go to the road. Henry would call the ambulance as soon as he reappeared and could get to a phone. Abe wouldn’t be alone long.

It would be alright. It had to be alright. 

With that last hopeful thought, Henry died.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt courtesy of [maxisthenewalex](http://maxisthenewalex.tumblr.com/)


	7. Haze

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Go West, old man. It's time to find something new.

Maybe it was all those foolish moving pictures—movies, he must call them movies—that he kept dragging himself to that put the idea in his head to go to California. The allure of Hollywood, old tales of gold and cowboys, modern tales of movie stars and beach life. Henry told himself he’d been wooed by the glamour, that it was silly and foolish.

It didn’t make a difference—he wanted to go. He could afford to cater to a whim now and again, and he wanted a vacation.

But if he really let himself think on it, it was more than that. It was the claustrophobia of the same city closing in around his ears, building up and up and yet not changing. It was coming up on a decade of working with the same doctor’s practice, and the colleagues who had started to comment with envy on his forever young appearance. It was the dark-haired woman with whom a dinner date had turned into a year-long courtship, who pressed him every day with heavier and heavier hints at marriage. Sometimes, it felt hard to breathe with all the things that hemmed him in, that wavered on the edge of collapsing his carefully constructed life.

The train rattled and steamed its way across the continent, and the chugging became a soundtrack that faded into the background, underscoring the journey. It was only when the long measure of grassy plains had passed and they began their long climb into the shocking peaks of the Rocky Mountains that he admitted to himself that he wouldn’t ever be going back.

The continental divide came and went, and the long trek down to the west coast began. They travelled through every conceivable biome, from deepest forests to driest deserts, and as their journey drew to a close, Henry was plastered to the window of his compartment, his breath fogging the glass. 

The Pacific Ocean. He’d never seen it before. When was the last time he’d seen something new? Really, truly new? He cupped his hands over his eyes, trying to spot a glimpse in the dawn, but it was still too dark to tell the ocean from any other dark blur out there, and then their elevation dropped and they were too far inland for him to see. He sighed in frustration, and turned himself back to packing up his meagre belongings, preparing for their arrival. It was still many hours away, but he was ready to be free of this rolling interregnum.

The station in San Francisco was crowded and dirty, and Henry was bumped and jostled around in the crush. Quickly he made for any point that would take him from the station. He spotted a cable car, which bristled like a hedgehog with people hanging off any available hold. He found a spot and squeezed on, holding firm onto a pole. 

The bell dinged loud, and they chugged up the hill. He grinned, taking his hat from his head and tucking it inside his jacket so it wouldn’t blow off in the windy spring weather. After the March chill of New York, and the frosty white that still carpeted the interior plains, the mild temperature, flowers, and greenery were a blast of giddy wonder. 

Over the crest of the hill and down, and there—the ocean gleamed, San Francisco Bay brilliant like diamonds in the sunshine. The air smelled thick with salt, fish, and mysteriously, chocolate. He looked to a squat woman seated on the bench next to him. He could barely see her over the large basket of groceries she hugged in her lap. All of the passengers were so crowded together that his legs pressed against her knees, and he pulled himself closer and leaned over.

“Do you smell chocolate?” he asked.

She looked taken aback that someone was speaking to her, and she gave him a suspicious look over a thicket of lettuce and celery fronds. She risked her hold on her basket to point, and Henry followed the gesture to the brick building belching steam down by the docks. 

“They make it over there.” 

Henry smiled, delighted, and thanked her. He drew another deep sniff of air. Fish and chocolate—what a combination.

When the cable car disgorged all its passengers, he walked straight to the water, practically breaking into a run with his eagerness. He took off his shoes and socks, rolled up his trousers, and walked into the shallow edge of the water. It was icy cold, and the sand sucked at his feet; he wiggled his toes, and they disappeared into the blond grains. A larger wave rolled on shore, threatening to dampen his trousers, and he had to scoop up his shoes to save them from a similar fate.

The Pacific Ocean. He was touching the largest ocean in the world. It was both comforting and intimidating to contemplate the vast distance, the depth and breadth of what spread before him, that started in these shallow waves curling over his feet, and travelled out beyond the bay and endlessly beyond that. He promised himself a voyage across this vast monster someday so that he could do this on the far side, stand on the shores of Japan, or China, or Siam, and bury his feet in the sand there. 

He bought a sandwich from a small stand catering to fisherman down on the pier, and a small bag of chocolate squares, and started to walk along the beach. He walked for hours, until the weather had heated him enough to strip off his suit jacket and tie, and his legs were tired from the constant shifting sand beneath every step.

As the mouth of the bay curved, he could see a massive half-finished bridge; the gap-toothed edges of the deck exposing the great beams that composed it, and already a gargantuan tower bore the weight of giant cables that stretched between the headlands. Beyond that, the world disappeared into a bank of fog that sat like a roll of cotton over the ocean.

Exhausted, Henry moved to the dry sand at the top of the beach and threw his things down. He unwrapped his snacks and sat watching the construction as he ate, the giant swaying pieces of iron beams become impossibly small at this distance, tiny toothpicks that would form an architectural achievement that boggled the mind.

Evening closed, and as the sun set the bank of fog rolled closer. Henry thought he was imagining it until the great white wall hit the bridge construction, and in the space of a minute, swallowed it whole until it was completely obscured.

In ten minutes the fog engulfed the headlands, the bridge, and then he watched, mesmerized, as it rolled over the bay toward him. When it hit, it was so thick he could not see the water’s edge, let alone the bay beyond. He shivered at the cold pricking moisture, at the isolating haze that wrapped him up and left him alone in the world, as though he were the last man left alive in a world of white.

Henry lay back on the sand, staring at blank whiteness above that held him in, cocooned and safe. No sky, no stars, nothing but white.

It was bizarre and eerie; the fog moving like a living thing, crawling across the earth. He’d never seen anything quite like it before. Henry smiled, and then laughed at the realization. It was something new, and that was to be treasured.

He would stay here. A new life, new experiences, new ideas.

He could breathe again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trivia for the curious: Henry arrives in San Francisco in March, 1936. The cable car is the Powell-Hyde line, which ends at Fisherman's Wharf, near Ghirardelli chocolate factory. The bridge is the Golden Gate, of course, which was painted its distinctive colour in 1937, after it was completed. Thailand was called Siam until 1939.


	8. Wind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I don’t know, I might have been a good sailor.”
> 
> Cracktastic Forever/Hornblower fic (sort of). You knew it had to happen sooner or later. Shippy, if you squint.

Abe had retired to bed, pleading fatigue and an early morning, and the second bottle of wine was cracked and well on its way to being finished.

Jo was leaned forward, elbows on the table and hands under her chin. She looked like an interrogator at work, and behind a haze of wine Henry could admit she was formidable when in her element. He was enjoying the challenge of turning aside her questions, of allowing the smallest bits of information here and there to satisfy enough of her curiosity to shuffle her along, twisting it back to get her talking.

It wasn’t easy; once on a path, she was difficult to distract, and some of her questions were so subtle they slipped in sideways, catching him off-guard. When comfortable, he was chatty by nature; even lifetimes of guarded secrecy hadn’t beaten that characteristic out of him. 

And Jo put him at ease. He’d grown fond of her; maybe it was her worried mothering, the irritating and caring way she shoved him back to put herself between him and danger—or that she was good at what she did, and that everything about her exuded a grounded confidence. He admired her, he supposed.

Jo had the bottle of wine, pouring out the last of it evenly between their glasses, and they toasted again. She was still watching him, keen-eyed over the rim of her glass, and he readied himself for another round. No doubt she thought she had him on the ropes. He smiled broadly, swirling the wine in his glass, ready for her offensive.

“You know, when I was a kid, I wanted to be a doctor.”

Henry raised an eyebrow. It wasn’t quite what he’d expected her to say. “Really?”

She nodded. “Yeah. When I was really little. I told people I wanted to be a psychiatrist—I think mostly because it was the biggest word I knew, and thought it was impressive. Had no idea what it meant, though.”

“You would have made a fine psychiatrist, I’m sure.”

“Thank you.” She shrugged, putting her glass down. “And you?” She narrowed her eyes, sizing him up. “An astronaut, I bet.”

Henry laughed at the absurdity of it. “Oh, no. Certainly not.” The idea of men travelling to the moon would have been as foreign as the internet and jet engines to him as a child.

“Fireman?”

“No.”

“CEO?”

“Mm, no.”

“Scuba diver?”

“No!”

“Clown.”

“Jo!” He laughed, half annoyed and half amused, and set down his wine on the table to lean towards her, resting his elbows on the table in imitation of her pose. “Fine. I suppose—well, at one point I fancied I might join the navy. Almost did, in fact.”

The look on her face was worth the price of the confession. 

“Oh my god. I cannot picture it.”

“I don’t know, I might have been a good sailor.”

He had dreamed of it, long ago as a teen in his school days. He’d been overcome with the same patriotic fervour of his classmates, what with the coming war with France on the horizon. 

“What changed your mind?”

He remembered the turning point well. His schooling and classes were done, his certificate achieved; his father was ready for him to join as an apprentice, doctoring the local town and outlying villages. And on the eve of his graduation, he stood before his father and begged him to call in favours to get him a posting on a ship. The idea of staying to continue on in his father’s footsteps felt more daunting than striking out on an unknown path. His father was an outstanding physician, a man well loved by those he cared for, and Henry wondered if he could live up to the large footsteps set before him. He felt inadequate to the task, and hungered for a venue to prove himself, to make his own imprint on the world.

After Henry’s impassioned appeal, his father looked at him sadly.

_“Are you so keen to take lives rather than save them?”_

Henry had said nothing, deeply wounded by his father’s disappointment, and by the abrupt puncture in his boyish dream. He’d not spared a thought for cannon fire and gunshot, of gutted and wounded men, of scurvy and sickness and death. Only the freedom, the adventure, the romance of it—to be stood on the quarterdeck of his own ship, wind on his face, hands locked at his back as he supervised the pull of ropes and billowing sails, rolling on the swells of the Channel—

“Henry?”

He blinked, pulled from his memories. It seemed the more he collected, the stronger they overcame over him; at times, his drifting reverie was downright embarrassing. 

“Ah. Well, it was a childish dream. Becoming a doctor was more rewarding in the end.” 

Jo made a little noise, that little _hmph_ that she made when she was tucking away another little bit of information about him. Sometimes he wondered what kind of picture she was building in her head. 

His mood had shifted, and Jo sensed it, quieting down and sipping her wine. “Thank you again for dinner.”

He shrugged, waving it off. It was the fourth time he’d invited her to join them, and he was growing to like her presence. “Thank Abe. He is absolutely world class at cooking. I am merely lucky enough to reap the benefits.”

Jo smiled. 

Yes, he really had grown quite fond of her.


	9. Flame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everybody's daddy has a job of some kind.

“Mom, what does Daddy do?”

Jo’s mother paused in the middle of lighting the votive, and then set the long taper against the wick and lit it. She blew out the taper carefully before returning it to the little tray.

The congregation had mostly filed out after the long service, and even though there was no one nearby her mother looked around carefully. 

Her mother pursed her lips. “Come on, let’s go.”

There was a stiff discomfort to her attitude. Jo had the sense that she’d entered into dangerous territory, the kind of parental disapproval that meant it was time to hunker down and stay low. She followed her mother from the church into the busy street, dragging her feet until her mother took her hand and pulled her along at a quicker pace.

They entered a cafe, and she was sat down at a table with a black and white cookie and a hot chocolate. She looked at the treats cautiously, not certain why she was being given them, getting the sense they were coming at a price. Her mother sat across the formica table with a coffee, sipping it slowly.

“Why did you ask me that?” her mother finally said.

Jo shrugged. The kids at school had bragged about dads who were lawyers, parents with careers, vacations at the Hamptons and vacations taken in tropical locales. She’d had no answer when they asked what her parents did. Her mother, a career volunteer, and her father—well, she had no idea. She hadn’t said anything when her friends asked.

“I dunno,” she finally said, slouching down in her chair. 

Her mother took another sip of coffee, and put the cup down with a loud clink on the white saucer. “It doesn’t matter what your dad does.”

Jo didn’t say anything. Her mother’s voice was brittle, even a little scary. 

“He’s your daddy, and he loves you, and that’s all you should care about,” her mother said. 

The hot chocolate and the cookie had lost its appeal. Jo picked at her fingernails, avoiding her mother’s gaze.

“He loves you, Jo. And that’s enough.”

Jo had the horrible feeling she’d done something wrong, even though she’d not been told what, and her mother hadn’t actually said anything to criticize her. She slouched and ducked her head until her mother had finished her coffee, and they walked home in silence.

She didn’t know why, but that night when she heard the indistinct voices of her parents arguing downstairs, she got up and locked the door to her bedroom, curling up in her bed and hugging her pillow.


	10. Formal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What was he going to do with ten identical waistcoats?

He was back—the cute one, with the curly hair and the gorgeous smile. Oh my god, he was back. 

There wasn’t much good to be said about working retail. Shitty hours, shittier pay, and the shittiest people in all of New York seemed to walk through the door on a daily basis. The boss had made no illusions when he hired her—she was a pretty face to cater to the businessmen who came in for their suits and formal wear. Act nice, flip her hair, upsell the more expensive clothes. Ugh, the bastard made her skin crawl, but she needed the job and options were slim.

But once in a while, there were perks. For instance, attractive men with accents who were actually nice and polite, showing up to try on every piece of clothing in the place.

Oh, and he had—on that day two weeks ago, she’d probably pulled every single pair of suit trousers and waistcoats from the floor and the stock room as he tried them all on, humming and hawing over them. The cut, the cloth, the bloody colour of the thread. Everything. In eighteen months of working there, she’d never seen anyone pickier about their clothing.

He’d finally selected two pieces. Two, out of all that. And identical—the same waistcoat in duplicate. She’d have been irritated if she hadn’t enjoyed the view so much, and if he hadn’t been so engaging to talk with. He’d taken an actual interest in her graduate folklore program at school, and seemed to have a really broad and unexpected knowledge of history in the Lower East Side and the various legends and lore that had sprung up in the community. He’d kept her talking through most of the fashion show, parading and strutting and sizing himself up in the mirrors, while asking her questions and spouting stories of his own. 

“Hello again, Elise,” he said, coming to the counter with a charming grin and a nod.

Elise smiled, taking his offered hand and shaking it. He remembered her name! “Henry, right?”

As if she’d forgotten. 

“Yes, that’s right.” He tapped his fingers on the counter. “So—I was hoping you could help me with something.”

She nodded. “Sure, anything!”

Ugh, that sounded a little desperate. Tone it down, Elise.

He gave a little deprecating laugh, and drummed his fingers again. “Those waistcoats I purchased when I was last here; maroon, I don’t know if—“

“Sure, I remember.” 

He raised his eyebrows, a little surprised by her interruption, but still held his pleasant smile. “Oh! Excellent, well.”

She tried not to cringe. God, she was so obvious.

“I’d like to order some more.”

She nodded. “Okay, sure. There’s a selection of colours—“

“No, just the maroon is fine.”

Elise paused. “Oh. Okay. So another one?”

“I’ll take ten.” 

She blinked. “Ten?”

“Ten.” He smiled innocently.

She laughed, not sure if he was teasing her. “Do you keep losing them or something?”

There was enough of an awkward pause before he laughed in response that Elise wondered if maybe he did keep losing waistcoats, and that this was somehow a sore point.

“So, is that possible?” he asked. 

Elise sobered and nodded, scribbling down the order on the post-it and setting it by the computer for entry later. “Yes, of course. Not a problem.”

Henry nodded, and graciously thanked her, shaking her hand again before he left. She’d like to think that he’d held on just a little longer than was strictly necessary, but that might have been her clinging. She’d tried not to. But oh my god, he really was gorgeous, and nice, and interesting.

She set about ordering ten identical maroon waistcoats, and found herself wondering what he could possibly want with that many identical pieces of clothing. Did he dress exactly the same every day? Did he have ten identical trousers, and ten identical jackets, and every shirt the same? 

Okay, so it was a little weird.

But he was still very pretty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to slangef for the prompt idea!


	11. Knowledge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry had her gun, and there was nothing Jo could do about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This drabble has been [translated into French](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4007449) by [littleinkdreams](http://littleinkdreams.tumblr.com/).

“It’s not your fault, Henry,” Jo said for the umpteenth time, watching Henry pace the rubble-littered room. 

“I think it’s the definition of ‘my fault,’ frankly.” His voice was hoarse from calling out for help. 

The ceiling above them creaked, and a trickle of dust showered down over them. Henry stopped and looked up at the cracks, running his hands through his hair, and then set to pacing again. Jo tried to sit up, but the pain in her leg made her cry out.

Henry hurried over to her. “Don’t move.” He tightened the strips of cloth from his ripped shirt that were wrapped around the long gash again, and she winced. “If you move, you’ll start bleeding again.”

Judging by the bright red everywhere and her faintness, she hadn’t stopped bleeding at all. Henry was sweet to lie and comfort her, but reality was hard to deny. “Prop me up. I’m sick of lying here.”

“No. You need to stay still, Jo.” He took hold of the frayed tail of his dress shirt and ripped another long strip off, and tied it as another layer around the makeshift bandages already there. Every movement was agony, but Jo grit her teeth and let him work. 

“Why did you follow me? Why did you have to follow me?” he hissed, and Jo wondered if he were speaking to her, or to himself.

“I wasn’t going to let you chase after an armed suspect alone,” she said. 

Henry was a fucking idiot, chasing a murderer into a condemned building. Maybe it had been the wild gunshot the suspect had sent their way, or something as simple as the slammed door the guy had thrown, but it had brought the wall down on them. They were trapped by a pile of rubble, and dammit, it _was_ Henry’s fault. He had no sense, no understanding of his own mortality. It was only fate that sent the room down around their ears instead of Henry getting himself shot. If there was any justice in the world, the suspect had died in the collapse. He’d been ahead of them, and it was impossible to know. 

But she wasn’t about to tell Henry any of it. He knew already, and they were both trapped in here without a single bar of cell reception. No need to make him feel worse. After all, he’d probably be the one who’d have to live with whatever went down today. Jo wasn’t so sure about herself.

Once again, Henry started to claw at the immovable rubble. Same as before, nothing significant moved. He grunted in frustration, and prowled the edges of the destroyed room. 

“Henry, sit down. You’ll wear yourself out,” she murmured. She was getting sleepy. “You need to save your energy.”

Henry knelt next to her head, and with gentle hands checked her temperature, her pulse, the dilation of her pupils. She’d been knocked hard by the collapsing cement, and knew she’d probably bleed out here long before anyone found them. Whatever he saw, he smiled encouragingly—or tried. His worry was poorly concealed. 

“I have to get you help.” He stroked her hair back from her face. “I can’t delay any longer.”

She snorted. If that was a joke meant to make her feel better, it was way off the mark. He was unfailing, as always, at saying just the wrong thing. “Okay then, off you go. Stop procrastinating.” 

“I am going to do something, and I need you to trust me.” He wore that same sad, worried smile. He took her hand and squeezed it tight. “And I promise it will be fine.”

She frowned. “What is it?”

Henry pulled his hand from hers, and then there was a tug at her side. He sat back, and had her gun in his hand. He flipped the safety off. 

“Hey! Henry—“ She reached for him, managing to brush against his knee before he shuffled back further from her. She tried to roll towards him, but her leg was agonizing, and she cringed. “Henry, what are you doing?” she managed.

Henry licked his lips, balancing the gun in his grip. “If I could think of any other way, I swear to you, I wouldn’t do this.” His hand was shaking, and the gun trembled. “But I need to get you to a hospital, and if I wait any longer you are going to bleed to death. I am not going to let you die because I—because—” He cut himself off, closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

She managed to get to her side, panting from the effort. He was scaring her, his off-kilter rambling not quite making sense. “Henry, give me back my gun.”

“Jo.” He opened his eyes, having calmed himself again. “I need you to remember what I’m saying now. It will make sense later.” He took another deep breath. “Now, I am going to shoot myself in the head. I’d prefer you didn’t watch.”

He said it with such terrifying, matter-of-fact calm that she took a moment to process what he meant. 

Jesus Christ, he was having some kind of psychotic break.

“No—no! Henry, give me the gun.” She reached for him again, but Henry stood up and walked away to the corner of the room.

“Listen to me. I am going to die, and my body is going to disappear.” He sounded apologetic more than anything. “But I won’t be dead—not permanently, anyway. I’ll have help here in an hour, maybe two. I promise you.”

“For god’s sake Henry, that is not how death works! It’s not a goddamned video game!” Jo felt dizzy, and her arms gave out on her. She didn’t have the strength to get to him, and she was going to spook him if she kept shouting. Suicide negotiation training came to her in small snippets, and she gulped for air, trying to calm herself, make her voice steady and soft. “Oh my god, okay, okay—let’s talk, Henry. I know it seems hopeless right, now, but—“

“Please, trust me.” He lifted the gun to his head.

“Henry! Henry, please! We can talk about this, I—“

He squeezed his eyes shut. “I’m so sorry, Jo. Try not to move. You’ll bleed faster if you do. And I promise, I’ll be back for you as soon as I can. Please don’t watch.” His words were frantic and tight, rushed out in a single breath.

“No, no, Henry! No—“

He turned around to face the corner of the room, turning his back to Jo.  The retort of the gun was deafening in the small space, and blotted out Jo’s cry.  Henry’s body collapsed to the floor, the gun clattering as it hit the cement, falling from his useless fingers. Jo looked away, gagging at the gory sight.  Oh god, Henry—

She looked up again, and the blank corner stared back at her. She sucked in a breath and held it.

Filthy cement, dust, bits of rubble. No blood and bones and brain sprayed on the wall. No Henry.

She propped herself up as well as she could, adrenaline and fear damping the pain, looking wildly around the room. Nothing. She was alone. No indication Henry had ever been here. Nothing but the torn strips of blue dress shirt tied tight around her wound.

The wooziness hit her as the adrenaline peaked and faded, and she collapsed back on the cement. She stared at the corner, at her gun lying three feet from the wall where Henry had dropped it as he fell. Where she was sure he’d fallen. The place where there was nothing. 

By the time she lost consciousness about fifteen minutes later, she’d almost convinced herself she’d imagined Henry being there in the first place. Delusions from loss of blood and pain. 

But those makeshift tourniquets on her leg—they refused to go away and let her embrace the comforting lie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is continued in the multi-chapter fic [History Repeating](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3170831/chapters/6885752).


	12. Move

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They were both old men, in their own ways.

Abe unlocked the store door and stooped to pick up the haphazard pile of bills and junk mail at his feet. As he gathered it up, a thick envelope in the pile stood out from the others. Heavy, high quality paper, and artful lettering carefully marking his address on the front, and Abe threw the rest on the table to the side. In his haste to open it he ripped the envelope, but managed to extract the letter intact.

It was from Henry, of course.

After all these years, he still refused to send email. Probably why he still had excellent penmanship—that and those ridiculous fountain pens he insisted on, with real inkwells that had always sat on his desk. The one time Abe had upset the pot of blue ink as a child, all three of them had ended up blue to their elbows cleaning it from the office desk and floor, and it had tracked everywhere in the house.

Abe put the fond memory aside and looked down at the letter in his hands, frowning at the scant words.

Unlike Henry’s usual five page sprawling letters detailing everyday life, his continuing irritation with modern conveniences, and the finer points of antiques dealings in London, this one was worryingly brief. Five lines, with an entire storybook written between them.

 

_Dear Abe,_

_I find that my time in London is drawing to a close. I regret to send you this on such short notice, but I will be arriving in New York on December 23rd. I hope that this finds you well, and that my arrival will not inconvenience you greatly. I look forward to seeing you; it truly has been too long._

_Much love,_   
_Henry_

 

Abe put the letter down on the desk, pulling at his chin in thought. Henry was running again, that much was obvious. There’s been three abrupt middle-of-the-night departures in Abe’s youth, and since Abigail left, Henry had been spinning like a top through city after city, finally settling in London for almost twelve years, his longest stretch in ages. Apparently something—an untimely death, no doubt—had upset the applecart and set him packing again.

He and Henry communicated by letter and through the odd phone call, but most of those were shipping logistics for the antiques business. He hadn’t seen Henry since the last time he blew through twelve years ago, from Rio on his way to London. And now here came dear old dad, just in time for Christmas, with only a day’s warning.

Abe was surprised to find he was nervous. Twelve years was a long time.

 

***

 

When Henry knocked on the door, Abe was already waiting in the shop for him, sitting at his desk with coffee and a fresh baked tea ring.

Henry looked the same. He hunched against the chilly December wind, a thick scarf bundled around him, and though he was a little scruffier—he’d let his beard come in a little, rather than the clean-shaven look he’d always favoured—he looked the same. Not a hair or a wrinkle different.

Abe opened the door, and Henry stared at him without a word, a shocked expression plastered across his face.

“Hello, Henry.”

“Abe. Abraham.” Henry blinked, stumbling for words. “It’s—it’s good to see you.”

Abe smiled wryly. “I know, you can say it. I got old.”

Henry dropped his suitcase and gathered Abe into a bear hug so fierce that Abe lost his breath, and he found himself tearing up as he hugged Henry back. It was the same man, down to the last hair, even the smell of him. With Henry, it was as if no time had ever passed. No matter how often this happened, these partings and reencounters, he was surprised every time to find Henry unchanged. But it had never been so long, before. Had he thought that this time it would be different? Part of him was convinced that someday Henry would look older, that time would eventually find its natural course with him. But not yet, apparently.

“I missed you, Abe,” Henry murmured, and he kissed Abe on the forehead before pulling back.

Abe wiped at his eyes quickly, sniffing and beckoning Henry into the store. “Yeah, yeah, me too. Come on, it’s damned cold out there, let me get this door shut.”

They sat having coffee for most of the afternoon, and talked into the evening. Somewhere over the course of the next few days, Henry’s plans for his next destination morphed into a few weeks with Abe, and then weeks became months became years, and Abe found he loved the companionship more than he could have guessed.

But, for all that Henry looked the same, he was much different now; he hid in the basement room he’d claimed as his laboratory, withdrawn from society in a way he’d never been before, and Abe worried. Whenever he tried to draw Henry out, he was happy to talk and visit, but then once Abe was occupied with life again, Henry isolated himself in his own little world.

The day he’d come home with the coroner’s job, Abe had hoped it would see him clear to a more social life. But no—to work, then home, no talk of coworkers or drinks after work—nothing. Studying death, talking about death, pursuing death, working with death. Henry had become truly unimaginative and single-minded in the last years, with a vision focused on a singular, definitive goal.

They’d each gotten old in their own way, Abe realized.


	13. Silver

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Twenty-five years is a long time, and not near long enough.

“What do you think the story is?”

“Abigail must have money. I can’t think of anything else.”

Abigail stopped in the middle of reaching for the can of tinned pears, listening to the conversation floating over the supermarket aisle. 

“If she had money, do you think she’d be working?”

“Hm, true. But Henry must have turned up for some reason. She’s at least twenty years older than him!”

The conversation moved away to the click of high heels on linoleum, and Abigail hurried the opposite way, ducking from the aisle and hoping to avoid being seen. She had no desire to face them—Tracy and Judith, from the sounds of it, women from the hospital staff. Friendly acquaintances, she’d thought, though vicious gossips seemed more accurate now.

Abigail ditched her little basket full of the dinner fixings at the front counter with an apology to the clerk, saying she’d been called away urgently, and fumbled for her keys in her purse as she hurried across the parking lot. She managed to get the car door open and get inside before she started to cry. It took a minute for her to regain her composure, but she when she managed it she wiped away the tears and tidied her makeup in the rearview mirror. 

The reflection in the mirror was an honest one; crows feet and silver in her blond hair. It wasn’t that bad—she wasn’t old, not really. Fifty-three was hardly the last legs of life, and she was aging gracefully, as her mother would have said. She really hated that expression. 

But she did look twenty years older than her husband, and there was little use denying that fact. She knew there was curiosity at the hospital about the two of them. Henry had suggested they consider working at different institutions to avoid exactly this situation, and these sorts of questions.

There’d come a time when instead of assuming Henry was her gigolo, they’d think he was her son. Now that was something she would never be prepared for. Abe had handled the transition from being a son to a little brother better than Abigail had. Perhaps growing up never knowing any different, Abe’s expectations for his family structure were different. But Abigail had no desire to become Henry’s mother in the eyes of friends, to be subject to bent arms and chaste kisses on the cheek whenever they were out.

These thoughts came to her more often now, even without the aid of overheard gossip. She was slowing down, no longer able to pull the emergency room shifts and long nights, laid up on the couch while Henry brought her tea and rubbed her feet, showing no signs of the wear and tear her body felt. 

On terrible days, she hated him for it, and herself for hating him. On worse days, she grieved for them both, and what this was doing to them. 

***

Abigail arrived home to find Henry already there, and he greeted her at the door with a kiss.

“Are the groceries in the car? Do you need help bringing them in?”

“I didn’t have time to stop,” she lied, hanging her coat and bag on the hook by the door. “I’ll make something up from what we have.”

Henry paused, his confusion evident. She walked past him down the hall without giving him a chance to question her, and he trailed behind her into the kitchen. He was conspicuously silent, and she knew he’d picked up on the lie. He’d likely calculated the time of her route, when she’d left work, how long each step had taken her, and knew. Of course he knew. 

“I have something for you,” Henry said. 

She felt exhausted, and not up for anything other than a hot shower and bed, but she turned and smiled anyway. “Yes?”

From his pocket, he pulled a small box, and presented it in the palm of his hand, crossing to her and handing it over. The small velvet box opened with a snap, and inside was a silver band—plain, unadorned, sparkling. 

“Happy anniversary, darling.”

Twenty-five years. It was twenty-five years today, and she’d forgotten. 

“Abigail? Abby, are you alright?”

She looked up at him, into his concerned face. She smiled and wiped away the few tears that had escaped, and smiled. 

“Yes, yes. It’s fine. It’s beautiful. Thank you, I—I just was surprised.” 

She stepped into his embrace and kissed him softly. He didn’t look any less concerned when she pulled back.

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Yes, Henry.” She rested her head against his chest, so tired. “I forgot, is all. I’m so sorry.”

He rubbed her back. “It’s okay. I don’t expect anything from you.”

Twenty-five wonderful years; she’d never been happier than she was with him, and she couldn’t imagine life any differently. But it was harder with each passing year, and she didn’t know how much longer this would work. 

“I love you, you know,” Henry said, kissing the top of her head and holding her tight.

“I know,” she sighed. “I know.”


	14. Denial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Human Resources at the New York City Medical Examiner's Office is a nightmare.

Nobody liked Human Resources, least of all the people who worked there. 

Romina never wanted to be a manager, and HR was hell on earth. She didn’t have the stomach for it, sitting there in judgement of an entire department full of people. The only place people liked less than a visit to HR was a trip to the dentist’s office, and she was the goddamned dentist. Maybe she imagined it, but she was sure she could see the fear in peoples' eyes when she walked the hall. 

The paperwork was okay, and her organization and competency was what had shuffled her into this position in the first place. And the job would have been fine, if not for the people. She was a people-pleaser by nature, and she just wanted people to get along. Instead what she got was a parade of the discontent, the assholes, the disenfranchised, all coming through her door. Disciplinary actions, raise requests, performance reviews, employee complaints, and endless, endless meetings about everything under the sun.

Every day brought another weird and uncomfortable meeting. The mediation between the lab techs who were fighting over a parking spot, which had progressed to the point where one of them backed into the other’s car on purpose; the janitor who had to be let go because he kept pissing in the supply cupboard; the night security guard who drank at his station, apparently too stupid to remember he was on camera.

And the ME who kept getting hauled in by the police for public indecency. God, she didn’t even know where to start with that one. 

She fingered the report that had just come in to be added to Dr. Morgan’s file. Standard procedure for any office associated with the police, to keep a record of any encounters. By rights, she should give him a warning that any further criminal or misdemeanour charges would put his job at risk, but something about calling a grown man into her office to request he keep his clothes on made her put her head on her desk and think about applying for a new job.

Maybe she didn’t have to. Dr. Morgan kept his nudity to his own time—it wasn’t like he went streaking through the lab. And he was good at his job, so it would be a shame to lose him. He was constantly called in to consult on crime scenes, and consequently had a case record that was unrivalled by any other ME in the city. Plus he could pull off an autopsy in record time, which meant the work load in their lab was zipping through without the usual major delays.

Oh, screw it. It was Friday. She cracked Morgan’s file and shoved the police report away and threw it back in the filing cabinet. 

If he started taking his clothes off at work, she’d deal with it then.


	15. Companion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s just a game, Henry. And you and me—we get to play it over, and over, and over again.”

**POISONING**

The orange cashew chicken was heavenly, even if it was eaten over a glossy photo spread of a decapitated corpse.

Henry rarely deigned to eat take-out. On the few times he was working late and not able to step out for a proper meal, he had a very limited number of places he trusted to bring him decent hot food. The Malaysian place two blocks from the County ME’s offices made the cut, and had yet to disappoint him.

Five minutes after eating the hasty meal, while paging through the autopsy file on his desk, the office started to grow uncomfortably warm. He wiped sweat from his forehead absently, absorbed in the case information.

A minutes after that, without warning, he was forced to double over and vomit into his wastepaper basket.

Lucas, working late with him on the eagerly awaited autopsy results, looked up from the microscope on his bench as Henry burst from his office. He pulled an earbud out and sat back in his chair.

“You don’t look good, boss.”

Henry dismissed his concern with a waved hand, woozy, struggling to make his way through the morgue with a small amount of dignity. “I’m fine. I just—“

He ran out the door without bothering to finish, and then down the hall to lock himself in the bathroom. Something was very, very wrong.

Eighteen minutes later, convulsing on the tile floor in agony he’d been completely unprepared for on a Tuesday night, he realized there was only one place this was going.

A minutes later he emerged gasping and freezing out of the river, mind spinning in confusion. Either the Malaysian place was off the list, or someone had poisoned him.

By the time he got back to the office the next morning, custodial had cleaned away the mess in his office—including the takeout container, much to his chagrin, as he’d hoped to test the food for toxins—and the staff were trying to contact the building manager to open the bathroom, which had been locked from the inside.

 

**GUNSHOT**

Two days later, Henry carefully picked his way along it looking for signs of the struggle that had led to the woman’s death earlier that night. The alley stank of piss and rot, and the rainy night had left everything slick.

The light of the police car at the end of the alley flashing its blue and red light blinded him, hampering his ability to get anything done. He shielded his eyes in annoyance, trying to pull some sort of tale from the strewn litter and mud on the ground.

Ah, jackpot. Footprints—a sweeping slide here, a scrape there, leading to—

He registered the faint hum of the silencer before the stunning impact in his gut. He stumbled back a step, staring down in shock at the tiny hole through his waistcoat, blossoming with blood.

Another hum, and another neat hole next to it. He put his hand to his stomach in disbelief.

Not again. What was going on?

The pain hit, and Henry collapsed onto his knees with a bone-jarring thud. As he fell forward, he heard the pivot of shoes in the alley ahead of him, the dark outline of someone walking away in the shadows. He hit the ground, face-first in the muck, wracked with pain, trying to keep silent. Oh, that really, really hurt. He convulsed, feeling the slick warm blood soaking his clothing.

Being shot wasn’t great at the best of times, but a stomach wound was a lengthy, unpleasant death. It wouldn’t kill you right away, and bleeding out took forever. Jo was in the middle of a suspect interview, but she’d likely be done in a minute or two. She’d be coming to check on him, see what he’d found. He needed to get out of there before she was back, because he was not going to make it, and he had no desire to die in the back of an ambulance.

He levered himself up, panting and struggling to get to hands and knees. His options were limited. Police at one end of the alley, a busy street the other, and—

Oh yes, that would do.

It took a minute of excruciating effort, but when Jo came looking for him she called for him loudly, he was well hidden. He heard her frustrated sighs before she marched back out of the alley, shouting for Hanson to see if he’d seen Henry, but he was too far gone at that point to feel relief at her departure.

Bleeding to death while buried in stinking refuse in a New York alleyway dumpster definitely made his top ten list of worst ways to die.

 

**OVERDOSE**

He felt the prick and burn in his leg, but the St. Patrick’s Day parade crowd was so packed that he wasn’t been able to do more than flinch, trying to look around and see what had happened, who was near him. He accidentally elbowed an old man in the head, who began to swear at him in Iranian. He apologized profusely, trying to scan the faces nearby.

“You alright, Henry?” Jo asked with a grin. “Someone goose you?”

Inside twenty seconds, it hit him like a truck.

His heart was thundering, a wave of euphoria not far behind, and he knew he’d been drugged with something. He staggered, wheeling about wildly, faces spinning in front of him, people backing up from him. Suspicion, anger, dislike—no special interest, nothing other than everyone staring at him like he was insane.

Jo frowned and grabbed his arm. “Henry, you alright?”

“Y-yes,” he stuttered, trying to blink away the spinning sensations. “I just need a moment. I’ll be back.”

He thrust her away, and had only a moment to register her shocked expression before he pushed through the crowd, not caring that he was barrelling through people, practically knocking them down in his haste.

He had to get away. He had to get out of there. It was crushing down on him. His heart was going to explode.

His heart was going to explode. He pressed a hand to his chest as he ran; no, really. It might explode. He was going to have a heart attack.

Third time in six days he was going to die, and he was beginning to lose his mind. It was connected, it all had to be connected, there was no way that even he had this kind of bad luck.

He was already feeling faint, and his knees were trembling as he ran around the corner from the parade route. The crowd had thinned, and those people on the sidewalk were steering well clear of him.

“Henry!”

Far behind him, Jo’s voice. He wheeled around, losing his balance and groping for anything to hold onto, his fist grazing the rough building side and scraping skin from the knuckles. No, he had to get away from Jo. She couldn’t see him, not now, when his heart was going to explode!

His own voice was ringing in his ears—was he saying this out loud? Was he shouting?

“Whoa there,” a voice said in his ear, and a supportive arm came around his chest, a body shoring him up from behind.

“I—I—“ Henry was stuttering uncontrollably. “I need—“

“I know. Come on.”

The man started walking him towards the nearby alley, now practically carrying him with strong arms around his chest.

The voice, it sounded familiar, but Henry couldn’t place it. He was losing control of his senses, his brain over-clocked with whatever stimulant had been pumped into him. He lost the thread of where he was then, colours passing too fast for him to track, his brain on fire and not marking anything properly. Were they inside, outside? What was happening?

When the arms around him let go, he fell forward and face-planted on the cement. His muscles were weak and shivering, and his heart was beating impossibly fast. He was certain it was going to explode.

“I have to say, this was disappointing.” A scuffing noise, and a pat on the back of his head. “After the dumpster, I really thought you could pull it off.”

“Wh-what—“ He was running out of air, his vision fading.

“You’re so very resourceful, Henry. It’s fun to watch you problem-solve.”

“Adam,” he gasped finally. He tried to roll over, but his body was a twitching mess, completely beyond control.

“Shush now, Henry. Don’t give up the game so early. You’ll do better next time.”

_Next time?_

Henry’s heart seized, and he died.

 

**STABBING**

Being repeatedly murdered was starting to wear on Henry. If Adam had some kind of master plan, it was not apparent to him. But if it was an attempt to get Henry to jump at shadows and lose sleep, then it was an effective one. He had trouble walking to work without startling at every unexpected move from the corner of his eye. Abe had noticed his mood, but given the repeated violent nature of the deaths, he’d kept it to himself so that Abe wouldn’t worry. It had meant a few long and chilly walks back from the river, but a few carefully stashed piles of clothes had helped out.

Crime rolled on in the busy city, and so two days later, Henry grabbed his kit and trailed along to crime scenes with the detectives, doing his best to focus.

“You doing better after Saturday?” Jo asked him. She knelt down next to him at the side of the elderly woman’s body, face-down in the park.

“Oh, yes. Sorry about that. I’m not a fan of crowds. I get a bit claustrophobic.”

Jo’s long, assessing look was the best indication yet that he had to pull himself together. Normally people were willing to shrug off his strange behaviours as part of his carefully cultivated off-putting image. She wasn’t even remotely convinced by his lies. Perhaps their continued association was making him more transparent to her. Or perhaps he just needed some decent sleep, and to stop being murdered in front of his coworkers. Henry snapped his examiner’s kit shut and stood.

“At any rate, I have what I need here. I can have my full report ready by this afternoon. If you wish to stop by my office, we can discuss it.”

“Sure. We can talk.”

Her meaning was obvious, and he pressed his lips together.

“Give me a few minutes, and we can head back together,” she said.

Henry gave her a stiff nod and walked away as Jo turned to collect more information from the beat cops who’d found the body. He returned to the car to throw his kit inside, cursing social entanglements, and half-planning his immediate departure from New York, and anything associated with his current life.

“Dr. Morgan?”

Half-lost in thoughts, he distractedly acknowledged the police officer approaching him. “Yes? What is it?”

The man smiled, coming closer until Henry backed up against the car in surprise, taken aback by the inappropriate invasion of his space. It was so quick and smooth that he didn’t have time to squirm away before he was hemmed in.

And then, the punch of a knife sliding under his ribs, a strong fist around the handle pinning him back against the car door. Henry clutched at the arm, but it was immovable, driving the knife into him, holding it there.

“A pleasure to meet face to face, Henry.”

Bland features, brown eyes. Nothing remarkable, someone you’d pass on the street without a second glance. Not a monster, just a man with a polite, professional smile, wearing a police uniform. Adam made no outward acknowledgement that he was engaged in anything other than conversation, just the hand slipped into Henry’s jacket, skewering him through the left lung with a three inch blade.

He tried to claw at Adam’s face, but he caught Henry’s hand easily and pulled it down, holding it in a handshake grip, tutting disapprovingly.

“Ah ah, let’s not make a scene. That would make people uncomfortable.” He twisted the knife, and Henry’s knees threatened to give. “I’m not far from your heart. It wouldn’t take much, you know.”

“Why?” Henry wheezed. “Why are you doing this?” He could hear the chatter of the people working the crime scene, the car blocking his body from them, only their heads visible.

Adam sighed, and wiggled the knife again. Henry clutched Adam’s jacket with his free hand to keep himself from slumping to the ground, and Adam gave a small huff of air, the faintest laugh, apparently entertained by Henry’s responsiveness.

“It’s fun, Henry. Aren’t you having fun?” He cocked his head slightly, his face nothing but professional calm. “Oh, your detective is checking us out.”

Henry glanced over his shoulder, and Jo held up a finger indicating she’d be just one more minute. Henry managed a casual smile, and lifted his hand to wave back that he’d understood. When she turned away, he sagged and coughed. He could taste blood in his mouth.

“See? You’re so good at this. I could even learn a thing or two from you.” He glanced over Henry’s shoulder, and sighed. “I wish we had more time. Ah, well.”

With one vicious thrust, the knife angled up into Henry’s heart. He dropped like a stone, sliding down the car to the ground. He grasped out for Adam’s legs and caught hold of his pant leg, but Adam kicked him off and turned to walk away.

“See you soon, Dr. Morgan.”

Henry had time to crawl under the car before he died, more terrified than he’d been in longer than he could remember.

 

**INTERMEZZO**

He’d owned the pistol since it was issued to him by the Army in 1942. He’d never fired it, not through the war, not since. It was a memento more than anything, of a brutal time long gone that had left a scar on him and on the world.

But that night, hair still damp from the river, Henry pulled it from his bureau drawer and set to polishing it, oiling the parts, disassembling and reassembling until it was a smoothly functioning tool.

He was a coward, deep down. He’d fought it for a long time, until he accepted that when push came to shove, he would rather flee than fight. The things he held dear were so few that he would scoop them up and run at the first sign of trouble. It had been harder with a young family; Abigail had mourned every time they shifted from place to place, and Abe had eventually been driven away by the same constant threat of moving, preferring to seek his own way in the world until they’d reconnected so many years later.

For the two of them he’d tried to stay still longer, facing risks and beating down the coward to make it work. After Abe left, and then Abigail, he’d lost that anchor, and turned tail at even the smallest whiff of trouble. The instinct was still there, and he wanted to run. Oh, he wanted to run so badly.

But he’d been in New York too long, and made too many mistakes to run away. He’d made Abe a target by staying here with him, and he knew that no matter how far he ran, Abe would still be at risk. Same for all the people he’d come to associate with at work, like Jo, who called him partner and who had been to his home for dinner. He’d made a target of her as well.

And so, next time Adam came for him, he’d have to be ready. He’d catch him, and he’d—he’d—

He’d what, convince him to go away? How did you get away from someone who you couldn’t outlive? Tie him up and throw him into a dungeon to stay for eternity?

It wasn’t much of a plan.

Even so, he started carrying the gun with him.

 

**SELF-DEFENSE**

It wasn’t until he was standing over the corpse in the dockside warehouse, staring at the familiar knife handle sticking out of the body’s back, that Henry realized Adam was putting these bodies here for him to look over, setting him up for each of these attacks. He felt foolish for not seeing it earlier.

So it was now. Somewhere, Adam was waiting for him. The heavy weight of the pistol in the holster at his back was little comfort. Now that he was here, any thoughts of brave resistance had fled. He just wanted out of there as quickly as possible.

A hand fell on his arm, and he jumped, dropping his bag to the ground with a clatter. Jo pulled her hand back quickly when he spun to face her.

“Sorry to scare you. You alright?”

Henry cleared his throat and smiled apologetically. “Yes, of course. I’m sorry, I’m a little distracted.”

“Yeah, I got that.” She grabbed him by the bicep and pulled him away from the forensic team to a private distance, and crossed her arms. “So spill. What’s going on? You’ve been weird all week. Even more than normal.”

He smiled at her, and the radiating concern. “I’m fine.” At her doubtful look, he conceded a little, just to give her something. “Well, I was ill earlier this week. I’m still recovering.”

“Hm.” She narrowed her eyes. “You know, if you need to go home, that’s okay.”

He nodded. “I think that might be for the best, thank you.”

“Okay.” She dug her keys out of her pocket and handed them over. “You can drive, right? Take my car. I’ll get a ride back with Hanson. Take care, and get some rest.”

He tucked the keys in his pocket and left the warehouse crime scene, leaving the artificial safety of the forensic team and detectives behind. He had no doubt that if Adam wanted to come for him, a few witnesses wouldn’t stop him. But even so, his steps slowed the farther he got from the others, working his way through the labyrinthian structure to find the exit.

He was two steps outside the warehouse door when he heard the scrape of footfalls. He was already turning as Adam grabbed him and slammed him against the warehouse wall, and twisted him to lock an arm around his neck, choking him. Henry beat at the arm around him, flailing to reach and claw at Adam’s head.

“Hi Henry,” Adam grunted, working to keep his grip on Henry as he fought and twisted. “Fancy seeing you here.”

His vision was going red already at the choke hold, and he started to fade out. He didn’t want to die, not again, not this relentless parade of violent death—

And then he remembered the gun. He scrabbled at his back and pulled it from the holster. He shoved it back behind him, digging the barrel into Adam’s body, and fired. A vicious curse in his ear, and the grip eased. Henry gasped for breath, breaking the hold and stumbling away.

“Look at that. You do have some teeth.”

Henry brandished the gun, for all it was worth to threaten a man who cared little he’d been shot through. “Stop this—this—whatever you’re doing.” He wished his hand would stop shaking, that his voice had some authority and confidence to it.

“I told you we’re the same. You still play house with your son, show up for the nine to five grind, but when that’s gone, you’ll see—it doesn’t matter. None of this matters.”

Adam pulled his hand away from where it was pressed to his hip and looked at it. Then with a manic grin, held it up for Henry to see. The blood was almost black in the dim light of the dark, poorly lit dock. Adam turned away from him and started to walk from the dockside, towards the road beyond. He stumbled a bit, but otherwise gave no concession to the bullet through his side. Henry didn’t know if he should stop him, or be grateful he was putting distance between them.

“It’s just a game, Henry.” Adam twisted to walk backwards a few steps. “And you and me—we get to play it over, and over, and over again.”

He turned the corner of the warehouse just as the exit door slammed open, and Jo came out, sidearm drawn. Henry hid the gun behind him as he spun, working it into the holster.

“Henry!” she called, and jogged over towards him, scanning the area. “Are you okay? I heard a gunshot.”

Henry grasped for a response. “Yes! Well, I mean, yes—kids? I think? They drove past, I think they were trying to scare me. Joyriding hoodlums. They’re gone now.”

Jo looked back to him, and raised her eyebrows. “‘Hoodlums?’”

He nodded, and pointed. “Yes. They went that way.”

She looked the way he was pointing—the other way to the street from the one Adam had taken—and then back to him. “But you’re okay?”

He nodded. “Yes, of course. Fine. Just looking forward to getting home.”

“Okay, I’ll call it in, let whoever’s in the area know to keep an eye out. What kind of car?”

“Red.”

She frowned. “Come on, Henry. I thought you were a car guy.”

“I am a Jaguar guy,” he corrected. “The rest of them have four wheels and go. I don’t know. It was red.”

She sighed. “Fine, fine. Look, I’ll take you home, okay? I don’t want to you driving on your own.”

He got in the car reluctantly, and as Jo drove him home in worried silence, he stared out the window and wondered if in two days he’d be fighting for his life again. If this was a game, what was his move supposed to be?

When was this going to end? Would it ever end?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ended up being way, way longer than I'd planned, and totally...pointless? An exploration of all the horrible ways I can kill Henry? I don't know. I'm not particularly happy with it, but in the interest of moving on, I'm calling it. I started it, I finished it, it's off my plate and I start something new tomorrow. 16 more fic days to go.


	16. Order

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Monopoly is a cut-throat game.

Lucas slammed his money down on the table. “Hah! Park Place is mine! Take that, bitches!”

“Lucas!” Henry exclaimed.

Lucas looked up and around at the other faces at the table. Henry was scandalized and offended, Jo had an eyebrow raised, and Abe was covering his mouth to hide a smile, laughing at Henry’s prudish objection.

“Oh, oh no—no, I didn’t mean you were bitches. I mean, like—“ He leaned forward over the table, imploring Henry earnestly. “You’re not a bitch.” Lucas looked at Jo, and paled, realizing his grave was even deeper than he’d initially thought. “Oh god. And you! You’re not a—“

Henry straightened in his chair and made a choked noise. “Stop. Not another word,” he ordered, stabbing a finger across the table at Lucas. “Silence.”

Lucas slumped in his seat. “Right, yeah. Okay.”

Abe leaned over to Lucas as Henry rolled the dice and shuffled his small thimble along past Go. “You give me the railroads, and I’ll give you Broadway. We can bleed ‘em dry on the next pass.” 

Lucas felt the press of a card against his thigh, and Abe gave him a meaningful look. He gave a surreptitious nod and they made the card exchange below the table. 

Abe was revealing himself to be a cut-throat competitor, but he knew he could take him when the hotels started going up. Victory was within his grasp.

He just needed to make sure not to trash-talk his coworkers when he did it.


	17. Thanks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All these years of life, and a man had never desired him before. This had been a courtship, and Henry hadn’t even realized.

Henry had held enough people in his arms to recognize when someone wanted to kiss him, so he was a bit surprised at himself that it took him so long to notice it this time.

He had been working too hard, that was true—they all had. The long hours at the hospital, thanks to the tuberculosis epidemic, were wearing on them all. James had finally hauled him from the research lab with cajoling and trite “physician, heal thyself” arguments, and he’d thrown up his hands and agreed, if only to stop James’ well-meaning pestering.

And what a good idea it had been. They ate until they were near to bursting, and then found an illegal gambling hall and lost what they could afford, and then some. James wheedled a bottle of whiskey from the bartender, and for hours they walked along the river, drinking and laughing and talking, debating their latest research, positing future directions of medicine. He couldn’t remember feeling so relaxed and at ease. It had been a long, long decade, and James had become such a dear friend, working his way through the professional isolation Henry had adopted in his immigration to America.

It happened slowly enough that Henry looked back and could forgive himself his lack of perceptiveness. A hand on the back or shoulder, an arm about him, the conspiratorial jokes they shared, the constant lean and brushing of shoulders. But then James, laughing at some off-colour joke Henry made, cupped his face and smiled at him with such affection and joy that it struck him deep, and he knew, understood with crystal clarity, what was happening. 

All these years of life, and a man had never desired him before. This had been a courtship, and Henry hadn’t even realized.

Perhaps it was the surprised revelation apparent on Henry’s face that made James drop his hands and shove them in his pockets. He was still chuckling, but poorly covering his embarrassment. He turned and jerked his head, indicating for Henry to follow him.

“Come on, long walk home. We should get going back.” 

Henry nodded reluctantly. He wasn’t quite willing to let go the moment, but neither did he know what to do with it, so he followed James without a word.

They walked along the marsh edge, back from the park into the city lights, and James, though he continued his happy chatter, was a space removed from him, carefully keeping himself from any accidental contact with Henry. Henry was disappointed by the lost intimacy of their evening.

He’d never put his affection for James in terms of desire before, but now that it was cast in that light, it made sense of something he’d never examined. He took his time over the thought, not wishing to toy with James for his own curiosity. But no, it was genuine desire—in an unexpected quarter, but it was there. He couldn’t work up any real objection, as convention held less and less sway over him with each passing year. 

At length they reached Henry’s walk-up, and James gave him a sloppy salute. “Doctor, I shall see thee anon.”

He was reluctant to let the evening fade, and gestured to the door. “At least come up for a nightcap.”

James ran a fingers through his hair, waffling over the decision, and Henry wondered if his own self-examination was for naught, if he’d misunderstood. 

But James shrugged and nodded. “Why not. Fortify me for the walk home.”

Henry unlocked the door, surprisingly nervous.

***

“Here you go,” Henry said, placing the glass of brandy in James’ hands.

“Thank you.” James took a drink, and continued his aimless inspection of Henry’s apartment. “You know it wouldn’t kill you to hang a picture on the wall, Henry.”

Henry sipped his brandy, looking around the bare, almost clinical apartment. Whatever furnishings and dressings he had were all here when he rented the place. “I’m not a decorator, I’m sad to say.”

He waited for more, but James stared down into his brandy as though it were the most fascinating thing in the world. Eventually he sighed and set his glass down on a table. He cupped James’ face in the same manner James had done to him, and James looked up at him in surprise.

“If you want to kiss me, you can.”

James gawped at him, and then burst into laughter. “My god, Henry. Only you, I swear, only you.”

Henry frowned, and then released him, wondering if he’d made a terrible error. “If I’ve offended you, I apologize.”

James, laughing and gasping too hard to speak, clapped him on the shoulder. Henry smiled, confused, but at the same time relieved to not be getting a punch in the nose for an unsolicited pass. 

“No, no,” James finally said, collecting himself. “No, I just—I can’t picture anyone but you saying that.”

“Oh.” 

Henry didn’t know what else to say. Most of the time, cutting to the truth of the matter served him well, but James’ response wasn’t a yes or a no, and certainly didn’t give him any indication if he’d made a mistake or not. He was starting to fret now; James was a good friend, the best he’d had in ages, and he hadn’t meant to drive a wedge between them, let alone something quite as weighty and typically taboo as this.

James seemed to pick up on his worry, and waved a hand in dismissal. “I’m sorry, Henry. Yes—yes, I’d really like to kiss you. It’s just—you know, one doesn’t usually come right out and announce these things.” An odd looked crossed his face. “Do you want to kiss me?”

Henry paused, and chose the route of honesty. “I think so. Kissing men isn’t in my realm of experience.”

James chewed on that for a few long seconds, and then arriving at a decision, moved close. He put a large, warm hand to Henry’s face and kissed him. 

Henry’s mind ran through a series of painful contortions at the unexpected brush of stubble in the kiss, at having to tilt his head up to meet James’ taller height, and the feel of suit jacket and waistcoat against him rather than full skirts. Then all that faded away as James kissed him deeper, and Henry wrapped his arms around him to draw him closer. This, at least, was familiar, and so, so welcome.

James pulled back, and Henry opened his eyes to find James, cheeks flushed, regarding him carefully. James stroked the line of his jaw with his thumb.

“So? Yes, no?”

“Yes. Certainly, yes.”

James let out a deep sigh, and leaned his forehead against Henry’s, brushing his nose against his. “Oh thank god. I don’t know what I would have done if you’d said no.”

This time Henry kissed him, and the rest—well, that part wasn’t so different at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dr. Carter is the doctor who dies of tuberculosis in episode 1x03. I don't care what anyone says, he totally had the biggest crush on Henry. *slips shipper goggles on*


	18. Look

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dr. Morgan, the new boss, is really, really into his job.

The first week after Dr. Morgan took over the morgue, the staff were almost certain he’d moved into his office permanently.

No one ever saw him come or go. He was in before anyone arrived, and stayed after everyone left, and spent most of his time either hunched over the computer terminal reviewing the database, or performing autopsies with an efficient, gleeful zeal that impressed some, and worried others. No one yet had gotten a word out of him that wasn’t strictly work related.

It wasn’t until Friday, when the dark circles of a sleep deficit were finally visible, that anyone believed he might actually be human.

The staff unanimously nominated Lucas to go into the lion’s den and invite the new boss down for their regular Friday afternoon happy hour. There had been debate over whether they should bother, and in the end nobody wanted to feel they hadn’t at least tried.

It was like a gallows march, walking the length of the morgue to Dr. Morgan’s office while the rest of the techs huddled outside the main doors in the hall, already chatting and in weekend mode. He knocked quietly.

“Yes?”

Lucas poked his head in and cleared his throat, but Dr. Morgan didn’t bother to look at him. He had his attention fully buried in an ancient looking case file.

“Um, a bunch of us usually go on Fridays to the pub, and we were wondering—“

“Yes, I know. Have fun,” Morgan said absently, flipping a page in the file.

Dr. Morgan’s desk and office floor were littered with filing boxes, at least twenty or so, and his desk held the stack of case files from one such box. The office had the faint musty smell of old paperwork.

“What are you doing?” Lucas asked.

He finally looked up, and Lucas had, for the first time, the experience of Dr. Morgan paying full attention to him. It was kind of awesome, actually, in the same way that having the gorilla at the zoo suddenly turn and stare at you was awesome, but you’re grateful all the same that there’s bars between you.

There weren’t any bars here, though, Lucas realized.

“I am reviewing case files.”

An _obviously_ was invisibly appended to the statement, but then Dr. Morgan smiled politely, and Lucas blinked and wondered if he’d inferred a dripping sarcasm that wasn’t there.

“I meant—I wondered why?”

“I have some catching up to do,” Morgan said, closing the file and putting it back in the box, and then picking up another. “Did you know that I’ve identified sixteen thousand, two hundred and seven distinct categorical causes of death? And that was just the online database summary. The un-digitalized archived files contain a great many more undocumented causes.”

Lucas stared at him. “Are you reviewing them all? Every corpse we’ve ever had?”

Dr. Morgan looked back at him, and sat back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. “Was there anything else, Lucas?”

Lucas shook his head vigorously, and started to back out of the office. “No—nope, just headed down to the pub.”

“Excellent. Enjoy your office bonding.”

“Yeah, uh, thanks.”

Lucas escaped out the door, and behind him Dr. Morgan returned to his files. When Lucas burst out into the corridor, the rest of the techs looked at him expectantly.

“I think he’s not really a pub sort of guy,” Lucas said.

The sigh of relief was audible, and they all piled into elevator to head out for their weekend. The new boss, Lucas decided, was kind of creepy. But also kind of awesome. In a creepy sort of way.

Maybe he’d get him down to the pub someday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this before I saw 1x08, and let me just say that I love Lucas even more now than I did before. I want to know all the stages of Lucas' great big crush on Henry.


	19. Summer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With love from your devoted wife, Nora.

 

***

 

Doctor Alistair Baxter  
Bethlem Royal Hospital  
12th of June, 1816

 

  
Dearest Henry,  
  
I hope that you have been enjoying the pleasing weather.  The apple blossoms have fallen, and as usual, it looks more like a winter snowfall than the green of approaching summer.  I hope that they have apple trees in the gardens at Bethlem.  I know that you always loved them so.  
  
Dr. Baxter tells me you still do not want to see me, and that it would deeply interfere with your recovery to disregard your wishes at this time.  While it deeply grieves me for us to be parted so long, I will do my best to be patient.  All I want is your swift return, and I will do anything to help, even if it is mourning your absence.  It is a small price to pay to know that you will return to me someday soon.  
  
My love, I dream of when you will come home, of when you will hold me in your arms again.  My Henry, my dearest, words alone cannot say how I love you.    
  
Please, if you would write to me, even to see words written in your hand would bring me such joy.  What I have done I have only done for you, for your health and our happiness.

 

With love from your most devoted wife,

Nora

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am covered in ink from that bloody calligraphy pen.


	20. Transformation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Women's fashion trends are hard to keep up with.

Nothing challenged Henry’s ability to be a gentleman quite so much as the wild variation in women’s fashions.

His youth, while not particularly religious, had nonetheless been somewhat sedate and conservative, and there were times when it took him a while to roll with the changes. Fads came and went, and his preconceived notions mellowed as he weathered years of ebb and flow. Some things were easier to manage. For example, for men, little changed. A good suit was still a good suit, in 1805 or in 1905 or 2005.

But women’s clothes? The fluctuating hemlines, silhouettes—he couldn’t even begin to get started on décolletage—well. That was something else.

He knew he shouldn’t stare, but there were times when looking at the ceiling or the floor were about the only thing he could do if he wished to not embarrass himself and whatever lovely lady was in question. After a while he always relearned some manners, but every so often he’d find himself startled by a change that challenged his adaptability.

He remembered being dragged out to a speakeasy in a grotty basement in the Lower East Side by a friend, Joseph, who declared that he’d have no more of Henry’s stick-in-the-mud ways.

Clinging, sheer fabrics, sparkles and sequins everywhere, and dresses with backs so low his imagination went into overdrive. The woman who pushed past him out the door with a cigarette, the swingy back of her dress, he swore he could see down to the curve of her rear, which swayed tantalizingly, just below the draping folds.

“Henry, you’re drooling. Get a hold of yourself, old man,” Joseph said with a laugh, elbowing Henry in the side.

“What?” Henry tore his eyes away and back to Joseph, who was shaking his head. “Oh, quite.” Henry cleared his throat and decided looking at the ceiling was best for now.

It wasn’t like it was a _bad_ change. Anything but, really. But goodness, it would take some getting used to.

And then, bikinis—he’d been in Paris still when the post-war fad hit, and it had been an eye-opening summer. Abigail had embraced the fashion rather enthusiastically, and he was grateful at least he was permitted to visually appreciate her without feeling guilty. And then later, miniskirts. Then somewhere in the 70’s, everything went off the rails.

By now, fashion had more or less run the gamut, and everything old was new, and most things had been seen and done, every boundary crossed, and so on and so forth. It didn’t mean he didn’t still appreciate the view, but it was easier to be less impressed with a spectacular view when it was on display every day, so to speak.

It also did not mean that he wasn’t caught staring—oh, he might as well say it, leering—once in a while, marvelling at what a wonderful, lovely thing were women’s fashions, not to mention the whole concept of sexual liberation.

“Henry.”

He blinked at Jo. She gave him a very pointed look, and he realized he’d been staring rather vacantly at Iona.

“Yes! Sorry.”

He always remembered his manners. Eventually. At times he still required a little prompting. Well, it was always nice to have something to work at.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to pipsqueak119 over on tumblr for the prompt idea. The ending is a reference to Henry's letchy staring problem in Iona Payne's office in 1x08.


	21. Diamond

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jo would have a hell of a lot more than a hangover to regret in the morning.

If it had just been the kidnapping case, it would have been fine. But the fact that it was today? That pushed it right over the edge into not fine at all. 

Jo needed this win, and she got it. Finding the kidnapped man was a miracle to begin with, and reuniting him with his wife had been the capper on it. But the reunion in the station house had been so emotional, them clinging to each other, both of them crying with relief at being together again—it got to her. She’d excused herself and gone back up to her desk, intent on cleaning up the last of her paperwork before she went home tonight. Not that she really wanted to go home tonight. 

It would have been ten years this year, if Sean were still alive. 

She put his picture back in her desk drawer, wishing the knot in her chest were so easy to shut away. Hopefully she could work herself to exhaustion, get home, have a big glass of wine, and go to sleep.

“Jo? What are you still doing here?”

She looked up. Henry was walking toward her through the empty detective’s offices, carrying a stack of folders. She sat back in her desk and her back cracked as she moved for the first time in too long of being hunched over her desk. 

“Trying to clear this up before I go home,” she said, stretching her sore muscles. “I don’t want to see it in the morning.”

He frowned, examining her with that frank, assessing squint he got when he was trying to suss something out. “I see.”

She gestured to the files in his hands, not particularly interested in being Henry’s observational guinea pig of the moment, and hoping to distract him. “What have you got there?”

He handed her the files, apparently willing to let her lead the conversation. “The autopsy files you requested. The state of the body was such I had to get it done as quickly as possible, or significant evidence would be lost.” He grimaced. “Not one of the more pleasant autopsies I’ve performed, I will admit.”

Henry looked as exhausted as she felt. Twelve hours up to his elbows in rotting flesh had to be gross for even someone who enjoyed his job as much as Henry seemed to. She cracked the file, and then quickly closed it again; she’d forgotten how gruesome this one was—give her a fresh dead guy any day over one who’d been sitting around for a while before they found him. She threw it on her desk along with the other ten files stacked up waiting for her attention.

“Great, thanks. I’ll get to it tomorrow.”

“Of course.” He pulled out his pocket watch and flipped it open, then clicked it closed again. “Well, I’ve long since missed dinner at home. Care to join me for something to eat?”

Jo was about to decline when, at the mention of food, her stomach rumbled loudly. Henry raised an eyebrow with a smile. She was tempted to say no just to spite him, to show that he didn’t know everything all the time. But she was done with work, and not ready for home, and company sounded nice.

“Sure, why not.”

 

***

 

Picking a place to eat turned out to be an ordeal, and one Jo knew she should have seen coming. 

Henry’s list of options all included places with cloth serviettes and wine lists, and all Jo wanted was a burger and a beer. It wasn’t until she told him flat out that she was hitting the pub and he could come in or go find his own fancy restaurant, that he reluctantly caved and joined her.

Henry Morgan tackling a burger and fries—now that sight alone made the evening worth it.

“I shudder to think what your arteries look like, Detective, if this is how you eat all the time,” Henry muttered, using a fork and knife to cut the burger into smaller bits, scraping relish off with visible distaste.

“Henry, eat your burger and quit whining,” Jo said through a mouthful, her irritation growing. His prim sniping was usually so ridiculous as to be funny, but tonight he was getting under her skin.

“Coronary health is not a joke, even at your age.”

“Oh my god!” She threw her burger down on the plate and grabbed the napkin to wipe her hands and mouth. “You know what, Henry? Shut up. Just shut up.”

He stopped in mid-cut, hands poised with fork and knife, looking at her with wide eyes. She was, she realized, on the edge of tears. God dammit, she wouldn’t cry about something as stupid as this. She blinked hard and fiddled with the ring on her necklace, worrying at it to distract herself.

“I’m sorry,” Henry said, putting his silverware down. “Is this the day he died?”

She looked up at him in surprise, and he meaningfully glanced at the ring she was twirling. She dropped it and sighed, wondering why she was ever surprised at anything Henry said anymore. 

“Wedding anniversary.” 

It felt strange to say it aloud, as though putting the concept into words took away from it, made it less. It was so much larger than that simple description; it was history, partnership, an entire lifetime of memories, and the day which they’d set aside to celebrate all the future moments to come—now it was just a reminder of everything that was gone. Trying to cram all that into two tiny words was impossible. She picked up her beer and drained the last of it. 

“I see,” he said.

Henry moved to stand, and Jo put her glass down and reached out to touch his arm and stop him.

“Hey, I’m sorry. You don’t need to leave or anything.” She sighed. “I’m just a little overtired, I guess.”

“I’m going to buy another round,” he said with a smile. “And no apologies necessary. I’m sorry too, for my tactlessness.”

And with that, he left for the bar. Jo sat back in her chair, watching him weave through the crowd, and then leaning on the bar to place his order. Nothing he said or did was ever quite what she expected. He always seemed to take a different route, and it was both refreshing and unsettling.

She picked up her burger and took another bite. Fine, if Henry was buying, she was drinking. It was that kind of night, anyway.

 

***

 

It turned out that Henry was a bit of a lightweight. They finished his round, and then Jo bought another, and then there was one more. Henry propped his head up with his hand, pontificating on their case and his all-day autopsy. She was glad they’d finished eating, because detailed descriptions of maggot life cycles was really not doing much for her.

Henry gestured wildly and smacked someone going by their table, and when he turned back to the table after his abject apologies, she laughed at him.

“You can’t hold your booze at all, Henry.”

“Thirty years out of practice will do that to you,” he said, grinning like a loon at her.

“Were you a childhood drinker?” She poked him in the arm and laughed.

He lost the smile. “No—no.” He paused, looking around the pub, and then he shrugged as he looked back to her. “I mean I never really drink.”

“Ah,” she said. “Well, thanks for joining me this time.” 

She lifted her glass and clinked against his, and they both took another sip. They’d switched to whiskey—the good stuff, at Henry’s insistence, of course. Henry put the glass down and twisted it in circles, spreading the damp ring from the bottom of the glass around, lost in thought.

“Hey, you okay?”

“Oh, yes. Fine, thank you.” He took the last sip of his whiskey and set it down. “But perhaps we should be going.”

She snorted when Henry came around to her side of the table and helped pull out her chair, like they were in some kind of regency drama, and he got his nose in the air and huffed about manners never going out of style before she managed to get him to laugh it off with her. 

Once outside, she realized she’d drunk far more than she’d planned, and put her car keys back in her pocket. 

“I’m going to leave my car here and take the subway.”

“That will take almost an hour at this time of night,” Henry said with a frown. “We have a spare room, and it’s only ten blocks. You’re welcome to stay.” He leaned against the outside pub wall, crossing his arms. “And besides, this time of night, a lady should not travel alone.”

“Henry, I have a badge, a gun, and a bad attitude. No one is going to mess with me.” She knocked him on the shoulder. “Besides, you’re the one who’s the magnet for trouble. I should be the one making sure you get home without being beaten up, shot, or kidnapped.” 

He harrumphed loudly and she laughed at him again. Henry wasn’t dissuaded, however. He offered his elbow, trying to stand straight and look aloof, but instead weaving on his feet and looking rumpled and bleary and a bit ridiculous, chin in the air and arm out like a chicken wing.

“Oh, why not.” She was tired and drunk enough that being asleep sooner rather than later was much more tempting than standing on ceremony. She linked her arm with his. “Lead on.”

 

***

 

When they reached Henry’s apartment, creeping in with clumsy drunken stealth to avoid waking Abe, who’d gone to sleep long ago, they raided the fridge and pulled out some food. They settled on crackers and cheese—and, because it was Henry, it was some cheese with an unpronounceable name, and fancy crackers that looked like each had been rolled and cut by hand. A far cry from cheddar and Ritz, which is what it would have been at her house.

Henry tidied away their midnight feast and as she watched him from her perch at the kitchen bar, she wondered how she’d gotten from interrogating him as a murder suspect to crashing on his couch. In the few months they’d known each other, he’d proved himself to be smart and competent, and she’d gone from using him as a useful tool to relying on him. And, even, valuing him.

He was a friend, an actual friend. It had been a while since she’d made one of those. Not the after work happy hour office friend—more like someone she could imagine calling up to water her plants. 

Then the idea of Henry coming to her Queens walkup and seeing her half-dead plants, and the horror that would elicit from him, made her strike that idea. She’d kept all the plants out of sentimentality, even though she wasn’t the one with the green thumb, and was slowly but surely killing them all. They’d all been Sean’s babies—the bonsai she’d killed almost right away, and she’d cried so hard over that stupid little tree, almost harder than the day she’d found out he was dead.

“Were you married long?”

She snapped out of her thoughts, and found Henry standing next to her. He pointed, and his finger brushed the back of her hand, which was clutching the ring on the chain around her neck.

“You touch it every time you think of him.”

She dropped it and tucked her hair behind her ear, wondering how often she must do that. Probably less and less; the loss was fading, but days like today, it felt fresh and raw. “This would be our tenth.”

Henry sighed, and sat facing her on the other kitchen stool. “I’m sorry, Jo.”

She shrugged. “That’s life, I guess.” She propped her head up on her hand, and looked at Henry. “What about you and Abigail? Were you married?”

Henry’s sharp look at her was full of unguarded sadness, as though he’d been hit in the stomach by a memory. She had her mouth open to apologize, to tell him he didn’t need to answer, and she hadn’t meant to bring it up, when he cleared his throat and nodded. 

“Yes.”

The faraway look he got told her she’d probably gotten about all he was willing to offer, and she put a hand on his arm, trying to stop what looked like a melancholic descent. 

“Hey, I’m sorry.”

He blinked, and twisted his hand to take hers, giving her a reassuring smile. “No, it’s fine. It was a long time ago now.”

She nodded and squeezed his hand. “Okay.”

It was a comfortable silence, and the reassurance in Henry’s grip made her feel a little less lonely, knowing that at least someone got it. Someone else knew that these things never really went away; they just hid until a moment blindsided you, and there you were again, right back at the beginning, full of a hurt that carried your breath away, leaving you vulnerable all over again.

Henry slid off the stool to stand, still holding her hand, knocking against her knees as he did and pulling her feet off where they’d hooked onto one of the stool’s crossbars. She slid off her perch, a little clumsy and off-balance, and Henry tried to catch her while she got her feet on the ground. The end result was that they ended up awkwardly trapped close together between the stools, Henry’s hand on her waist, and hers on his chest, their other two still clasped together.

“Sorry,” he murmured, but he didn’t move away.

“It’s alright.”

After a few drinks, a warm body, the sound and feel of a man breathing so close to her, the smell of cologne; all of it set her thoughts on a track that promised instant reward in exchange for delayed repercussions—repercussions that were so far from them here in this kitchen that they were impossible to think about. 

Jo would admit later that, as far as bad ideas went, this one was pretty high up there—but she didn’t particularly care at that moment. And so, before she could think up any objections, she kissed Henry.

Henry drew in a sharp breath as her lips touched his. He hesitated only the briefest moment, and then he slid a hand around the back of her neck, fingers in her hair, making a deep noise in his throat as he kissed her hard. He pulled her close and knocked them off-balance, tipping them against the counter edge.

Once the line was crossed, it was a lightning quick downhill slide; clothes pulled loose and buttons worked with haste, Henry just as eager to make his own bad decisions as she was. By the time they made it to the bedroom and tumbled into the bed, she was at least certain it was going to be one of her more worthwhile mistakes.

She’d have a hell of a lot more than a hangover to regret in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic idea started with the idea that Sean gave Jo a diamond ring for their last anniversary, or that he'd promised her one on their 10th. It never made it directly into the text, but the intent was still there. See? It is about diamonds. Sort of.
> 
> I don't ship Jo and Henry at all - not even a tiny bit - but I wanted to see if I could figure out a way for them to hook up, something that I could buy, without them falling too far out of character. This was as close as I could get.


	22. Tremble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It wasn’t every day Henry got to send his own murderer to prison.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New York, 1957.

“State your name for the court.”

“Doctor Henry Morgan.”

“Raise your right hand. Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth—“

Henry held one hand aloft while the other rested on the court Bible, trying hard not to let them visibly tremble. The scratch of the court reporter’s pencil was furious and loud in the quiet court room, sketching him as a key witness, and he wondered again why he was doing this. 

“Where were you at 4:16pm on Thursday January 10th, Dr. Morgan?”

He was too far in to run away now, so Henry screwed up his courage and answered. “I entered into the Wells Fargo bank on East 14th Street, near Irving Place.”

The lawyer, an elderly ruddy-faced man, tweaked his bushy white moustache while walking the floor before the witness stand. “And what did you see in the bank?”

“There was a robbery in progress.” He looked across to the defendants table where a man, Finnigan Bishop, sat in grey overalls, bound hand and foot by cuffs, staring at him with round eyes, his face gaunt and pale. “Mr. Bishop had a gun and was threatening to shoot the teller in the face. Two people were dead on the floor.”

“And what did you do, Dr. Morgan?”

Henry licked his lips, and looked away from Bishop’s watery blue eyes, focusing on the lawyer instead. “I tried to assess if the two people were alive. They were not. I asked Mr. Bishop to put down his gun, and reconsider his actions.”

“And what happened then?”

Bishop straightened in his chair, leaning forward, and Henry studiously ignored him. “He shot the teller in the head. She died instantly.”

The jury murmured, and the judge tapped his gavel and asked for quiet. Once the court settled again, with only the scribbling pencil still at work in the silence, the lawyer spoke again. 

“Can you tell us what happened next?”

“I ran for the door. Mr. Bishop fired three times but missed—“

“Liar! You goddamned liar, I never miss!” Bishop was out of his chair, spearing Henry with a pointed finger, and the court launched into an uproar as two sheriffs tried to manhandle him back into his seat. Bishop was struggling against them, shaking his cuffed hands at Henry. “ I shot you, you son of a bitch! I killed you, and you disappeared!”

The court fell into complete disarray, and in the end Bishop was ejected from the court room, unable to calm himself despite repeated warnings. Henry sat stiffly on the witness stand, clutching his wide brimmed fedora in his lap and praying for the ordeal to be over soon. 

Eventually he was able to complete his fraudulent testimony, detailing his miraculous escape and call to the police.

He’d considered trying to disappear from the police radar, but in the end he’d given his name and offered to be a witness for the prosecution. The blind insanity in Bishop’s eyes when he’d pointed the gun, lips pulled back in a snarl—the death haunted Henry, murder affecting him in a way that accidental death did not. 

With very little deliberation, the jury decided that on three counts of murder and a bank robbery charge, Finnigan Bishop was sentenced to life in prison. 

It wasn’t every day Henry got to send his own murderer to prison. As he left the court room, he saw the courtroom artist flip the sketchbook closed on a rough interpretation of his face. He tried to ignore it, knowing that no one could possibly ever identify him from a sketch in a random court trial in 1957. Besides, it was worth the minor risk to know that Bishop was locked away.


	23. Thousand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing is too insignificant to be an X-File.

“Let me ask you a question, Scully; if you could never die, what would you do with your time?”

Scully came in the office with the fresh coffees and set Mulder’s down on his desk, shoving aside reams of paper files to create enough desk space to set it down safely.

“I presume this is a leading question?” She sat down and took a sip of her own coffee. 

“All I’m saying is that if I were immortal, I’d probably find better things to do with my time than streaking.”

“What?”

Mulder collected three files and handed them to her. “Take a look at these.”

All three were hand-written incident reports of arrests for public nudity. She frowned at them, scanning them over, and then looking at the large graveyard of files scattered over Mulder’s desk.

“Are the rest of these all indecent exposure arrest files?” She gestured to them, and Mulder raked them into some order.

“Yep.”

“And why were you looking up historical indecency charges?”

Mulder scratched his head and shrugged. “Uh—well—“ he mumbled, and then pointed to the three in her hands. “But look, it’s a pattern!”

He took them back from her and laid the first one open on his desk. Scully came to stand him, leaning over the desk. 

“Henry Morgan, caucasian male, aged 35, arrested for indecent exposure in Manhattan. Year, 1912.” He spread out the second folder next to the first. “Henry Morgan, caucasian male, aged 35, arrested for indecent exposure in Manhattan. Year, 1957.” And then, the third. “Henry Morgan, caucasian male, aged 35, arrested for indecent exposure in Manhattan. Year, 1993.”

He spread his hands wide, as though his point were made, and Scully rolled her eyes.

“Mulder, all you have successfully proved is that there are a lot of white men named Henry Morgan in New York, and that people will take their clothes off at the slightest provocation.”

“No, I think it’s more than that,” Mulder said, pointing to the records. “There aren’t photos with the first two, but look at this one from 1993—a visual record.” He pulled out a police mugshot and laid it down in front of her. “Now listen to this from the 1912 report—5’11”, dark hair—“

He went on, listing the physical descriptors from that and the 1957 file, both of which adequately described the man in the mugshot, who was captured by the camera bearing a faintly irritated expression. Scully put up her hand to stop Mulder’s tirade.

“Mulder, this man could not look any more generic if he tried. You can describe half the men on television using that set of characteristics.”

Mulder sat back in his chair and folded his arms. “Scully, why you gotta rain on my parade?”

“Are you trying to tell me that you seriously think this is the same man? That, what, he’s been alive for a hundred years, and every once in a while decides to flash all of Manhattan for something to do?”

Mulder leaned forward with excitement. “Think about it— what if it’s within the realm of possibility that a man could go on living, without aging, without dying, continuing on in defiance of the entropic laws of nature? And how did it happen; was he born that way, or did something make him? Scully, he could be thousands of years old, having seen the rise and fall of civilizations on Earth. Why is he here, and what does he want?”

“A set of clothes he can keep on?”

“Come on, admit it, you’re curious.” 

“No, Mulder, I’m not! It’s a string of coincidence that you are reading too much into. It is so far beyond the realm of possibility that it is ludicrous. Eventual death is a biological certainty, from the concept of the entire organism down to the cellular level, where death and renewal is a constant process. Organic matter of any kind is unable to withstand the forces that work against it, trying to destroy it.”

“Some trees live for hundreds, even thousands of years.”

“People are not trees, Mulder.”

“You’re no fun, Scully.”

She took another sip of her coffee. “So, how about you tell me why you’re reading through boxes of public indecency reports?”

Mulder coughed, and started to tidy away files. “I thought I might find something useful.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Hey, did you bring danishes too?”

Scully sighed, and pulled out the paper bag full of pastries. Putting up with Mulder when he was bored was incredibly trying. Keep him fed, caffeinated, and try to keep the crazy theories under control. 

She hoped to god she wasn’t going to be in New York by tonight trying to catch a mythical immortal flasher.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You probably only need to see one episode of the X-Files for this to make sense. Any episode will do.


	24. Letters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sex is simple. Feelings are much more complicated.

The letter burned a hole in his pocket all day, until everyone had finally left and he went straight to his office to read it. Patience was a virtue Henry still struggled with, and time and again his curiosity always seemed to win out.

It was delivered to his office, since he’d left Iona—Molly—with no personal contact information. A practical course of action, but he was unreasonably charmed that she’d gone to the trouble of writing a letter rather than phoning. No one wrote letters anymore.

He read through it once, and then again to make sure he’d actually read it correctly, and then a third time, just because. She certainly didn’t lack for confidence. Or creativity with a turn of phrase. My god, he was actually blushing. 

At the bottom of the letter, her home address, and a standing offer that send his imagination spinning into overdrive.

On second thought, reading this in his office was a poor choice.

He folded the letter and tucked it into the breast pocket of his jacket. Now came the hard part; a decision on what he should do. 

On the one hand, sex wasn’t that complicated. Okay, he’d concede that with her it might be; he wasn’t often out of his depth, and she certainly proposed some new experiences he’d never considered before. But she was obviously willing and able to take charge, so it was merely a matter of being game for following her lead. He was definitely game.

On the other hand, feelings were very complicated. He liked her—affection, as well as a genuine, deep respect. He knew he could fall in love with her, if he let himself.

He sat back in his chair and wondered what to do.

 

***

 

Iona opened the door seconds after he knocked, and she smiled. “I like finding you on my doorstep, Dr. Morgan.”

Henry didn’t know why he’d bothered with the academic exercise of wondering if this was a good idea or not. He’d made the decision long ago; somewhere between her hand on his chest, fingers hooked over the top of his waistcoat, and finding himself waiting outside the jail for her to appear after her release. 

“May I come in?”

“Of course.” 

She held the door for him and he came into the entry hall. As she took his coat and hung it up he looked around at the tasteful decor. She favoured muted colours and earth tones. It was cosy and soft, lacking the cool, hard edge of her office. It felt like a sanctuary, and he suspected that she did not often have people in her home. He smiled to himself, and then set the thought aside when Iona returned.

“You got my letter, then.” When he nodded, she tipped her head to the side. “What did you think?”

“Quite a lot. Most of which I don’t think I could describe with quite your flourish.”

She laughed. “Can I get you anything to drink?”

He shook his head. “I’m fine, thank you.”

“Great. I’d have waited through a glass of wine if I had to.” She closed in on him and undid the buttons on his jacket, and she looked up at him through dark lashes. “Objections?”

He shook his head, mouth dry. “No.”

He leaned down and kissed her. He was in so, so much trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am coming back to fix this one once I'm done the challenge. Ugh, so not happy with it.


	25. Outside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was dark in the coal mines, and hot as hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wales, 1860.

It was dark in the coal mines, and hot as hell. Dust in your lungs like constant grains of sand. Bloody noses, black phlegm coughed up after every deep breath. The black settled over everything within sight of the mine, erasing all colour and leaving the world a drab monochrome.

Treating men from Risca who worked the mines was like putting a plaster on a missing limb. They were on a march to the grave, and it was only a question of whether they took the slow path of respiratory disease, or the fast track of accidental death.

When the explosion roared up from underground and the main tunnel collapsed, no one knew if anyone from the one hundred and fifty man crew below were alive or dead. Henry volunteered to go down with the rescue crew, anxious to offer any survivors treatment as soon as possible.

He was terrified, poking his way through the rubble, hundreds of feet of rock pressing down above him. How would it feel to be crushed to death, the life squeezed out of you, body battered and broken? He steered his thoughts back to the task at hand. Find the men, save the ones they could, bring the bodies back they could find. 

In all probability, they’d be pulling bodies out of this mine along with the coal for years to come. These poor souls, and all the others who’d die down in the black, their lives worth less than the shilling made off their backs; the men and women from the town were the ones who took their chances by turn, while the shift bosses and managers stood to the side, already declaring the men lost and the rescue effort not worth the cost.

Two hundred feet into the tunnel they started finding bodies. Some were crushed to pulp by rubble, some buried and drowned in mud and coal dust slurry. Two men cowered in the narrow cavity of space below two timber frames that held the tunnel, and they both wept unashamedly when the crew broke through to them. 

They dug for two days, pulling out body after body. Henry’s optimism faded with each dead man, and every pronouncement to a grieving family.

When they burst through into a chamber and saw the ten men sitting curled against the walls, Henry and two others charged in calling out to them with optimism, shining their headlamps around.

Henry laid his fingers against the neck of one still man, and then another. Both dead where they’d curled up against the rock.

“Gas!” 

The man at his side bellowed out the warning, jumping to the conclusion at the same time as Henry. 

“It’s gas!” 

The crew took up the cry behind him and he stood, already feeling the swirling dizziness as it took the place of oxygen in his blood. He pushed the man at his side towards the exit tunnel and turned back to the bodies of the men scattered around the chamber. Just in case, he had to check. He held his breath as long as he could, stopping at each one to check for any sign of life. Nothing.

He swayed and sucked in a deep, useless breath. His vision was going dark. Not much time left. He staggered to the excavated tunnel. 

One of the rescue crew had fallen, and Henry tried to urge him on, but he was already unconscious. Henry’s muscles turned to jelly, and he fell to his knees at the man’s side. He was tired, the drive to flee fading, and the ground rushed up at him before his eyes closed.

In a blink, it was all gone, and then the slap of cold water, and a clean breath of sharp, salty air.

The Atlantic was brutally cold in winter.

Henry made it to the rocky shore, crawling over sharp rocks, wondering if he’d make it to safety before he died of exposure and found himself back in the ocean again. But even iced through to his bones, he stopped and looked up at the sky, never more grateful to be outside in his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is roughly inspired by a large mining accident in 1860 in the South Wales coalfields.


	26. Winter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He couldn't keep them both under glass forever.

Abigail settled herself on the sled behind Abe, digging her heels into the snow to keep them in place.  
  
“Are you ready?”    
  
Abe nodded, clutching tight to the rope, mittens caked with snow.  “Ready.”  
  
Abigail rocked forward and dislodged the sled, and they built up speed, until they flew so fast the cold wind made her eyes water.  Abe screamed at the top of his lungs, terrified and exhilarated, and Abigail gave a whoop. They hit the snow ramp with a thud and rocketed into the air.  
  
There was one long second of free fall with her and Abe both shrieking, and then into the billowing loose bank of snow below, landing with a soft _whump_ that put them in snow up to their ears.  
  
Abigail was laughing too hard to catch her breath, hugging Abe, whose terrified howl had turned to wordless screams of excitement.  
  
“Let’s do it again!”  he shouted, scrambling through the snow drift, pulling at Abigail’s coat.  “Come on, again!”  
  
“We have to fix the ramp first!”  she said, laughing, emerging from the snowbank.  Abe was already on the task, packing the ramp back into shape, and she brushed away the snow that worked its way into her collar.  
  
She looked over when movement caught her eye and saw Henry standing watching them.  He was halfway between disbelief and terror, his face white beneath the red-tipped nose and windburned cheeks.  Abigail sighed, and climbed up out of the snow to go greet him.  
  
“I thought we agreed this hill was dangerous,” Henry said when she was near enough.  “I don’t think this is wise.”  
  
“I didn’t say it was dangerous, I said we’d have to look at it carefully before we did anything.  The snow drift is deep enough.  It’s fine, Henry.”  She gestured back to where Abe was still moulding and shaping their damaged snow ramp.  “And he is having the time of his life.”  
  
“This is reckless!  You’re both going to end up breaking something!  Or—“    
  
He caught himself, and shut his mouth, tucking his hands beneath his armpits and scowling at the hill that stretched up into the woods behind their house.    
  
“Or what, Henry?”  
  
She dared him to say it.  Just admit that he couldn’t handle even the slightest fear that she or Abe would come to any harm that might shorten their lives.  She’d met him in a war zone, and yet he treated her and Abe as though he would keep them under glass.  
  
“You can’t keep him wrapped in cotton wool his whole life,” she said, taking his arm and pulling it free from his defensive pose.  “Let him have his adventures.  If you don’t, he’ll resent you for it.”  
  
 _And so will I._   She didn’t need to say it out loud, it’s implication was plenty clear, and his wounded expression said he’d understood it well.  
  
“I’m sorry, Abigail.”  The apology was stiff and awkward, and then Henry’s expression melted into helpless worry.  “But must it be quite so—I mean, a launch?”  
  
“Mommy?  Daddy?”  
  
Abe’s little voice called out, and they turned to him. He was like a little marshmallow in his snowsuit, nose peeping out from above his scarf.  She could see the worry in his eyes that Henry was going to call them back in, and she smiled.  
  
“Just a moment, darling.”  She turned to Henry, and squeezed his hand.  “You go this time.”  
  
His eyebrows shot up.  “You can’t be serious.  I’m not going on that thing.”  
  
Sometimes you could practically see Henry’s straight-laced Georgian upbringing.  She’d hardly have called her own family wild, but in comparison to Henry’s stiff attitudes, she seemed a libertine.   Couple that with his irrational fears over his family’s fragility, and he could be as inflexible as rock.  
  
“He’ll be so happy.  Go on.”  She tugged at him, urging him towards Abe, and then cupped a hand to call to Abe.  “Daddy’s going to come with you this time!”  
  
“Abigail!” Henry grumbled.    
  
But Abe was already hopping with excitement, and she could see Henry’s brows pull together, and the softening of his reluctance.  He knew, as well as she did, that he couldn’t really deny Abe anything that fell within reason.  
  
Henry sighed, and trudged through the snow, shooting a last faintly irritated and amused look back at Abigail.  “I’m coming, Abraham!  You can show me how this works.”  
  
Abigail smiled as they trudged up the hill. 


	27. Mad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Swim and run, swim and run, swim and run.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're sensitive to descriptions of violence or torture, you might want to skip this one.

After two years in Bedlam, Henry was convinced he’d conjured the whole thing.  
  
A year in the straight jacket, until he learned to bow his head and say ‘yes sir’ to the men who came for him twice a day and submit to their constant invasion, and then a year in the cage when he’d lost his temper and bit one of his keepers in a fit of self-righteous independence.    
  
The day they let him out of the iron monster, he’d flung himself out a window, thinking death a fine option.  His mind was so twisted up he was convinced it would be permanent; they had worked hard to convince him of his mortality, until it became his sole objective and he took the first chance he had.  
  
When he woke in the small lake on the hospital grounds, he’d been stark naked and startled four patients and two orderlies as he burst from the surface of the water.  Both of them waded in and pulled him out, and he was too overwhelmed to fight them off.  He was saddled with the memory of hitting the ground, of the gruesome sound of his own neck snapping, the pain, and the sure knowledge that even death was not an escape from this place.  
  
And, the last year, now that they knew—he couldn’t think on it.  
  
He couldn’t think at all.  It was a blessing, though.  Anger had left him early on, and fear had only lasted so long before a numb retreat from the world around him was the only option.  
  
They were guiding him back to his room the night the riot broke out, sweeping the hospital like a firestorm of pent up rage. Even the docile patients rose up and turned on their masters, and one of Henry’s orderlies ran to intervene as three wild-eyed patients beat the daylights out of a doctor in the middle of a corridor.    
  
The one man still holding him tugged at Henry, trying to hustle him back to his room and lock him away, but he stopped short when a patient wielding a shard of glass from a broken window pane materialized before them.  He growled at them like a wild animal, lunging forward, and the orderly threw Henry between them, cowering behind his back and using him as a shield.    
  
The shard of glass swished the air past his chest in an aggressive swipe.  The man’s hand was bleeding where he clutched it, the edges sharp as a razor.  It would slice him to ribbons, if it caught him.  
  
For the first time in so long, he felt the dull throb of hope.  
  
This was his chance.  It was a pitch black night outside, and they weren’t expecting him to die—they’d have no one waiting for him at the water.  He had only to make it count.    
  
The familiar tremble hit him, the internal clench of knowing the pain was coming, that he could do nothing to stop it.  He hurt all the time, unable to control the cuts, the slicing him to bits, the helplessness of being caught like a fish on the shores of the lake, every single time dragged back for more and more and more until his mind was deserting him, slowly driving him as insane as the rest.  He’d do anything to stop it, even this.  
  
Henry bellowed as loud as he could and thrust himself forward with his arms wide as his chains would allow, as though to embrace the man.  
  
A driving stab to the belly opened the poorly done stitches holding in his guts.  He knew the feel of his stomach being pierced by now, and knew it wasn’t enough.  He grabbed his wrist and wrenched, driving the glass up into him.  Maximum trauma for the fastest death possible.  He was already weak from the exploratory surgery, it wouldn’t take much to bleed out.  In his mind he pled with a God he didn’t believe in any longer that it would be quick.  
  
His ears rang with the screams of Bedlam in chaos, and he closed his eyes.  He tried to keep his mind active  through the pain and prepare himself for what lay beyond this moment.  He had to be ready, if this was going to succeed.  
  
 _Swim, and run.  Swim, and run.  Swim, and…_  



	28. Simple

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It wasn't the road Lucas thought he would take, but his life was still pretty good.

Lucas had no illusions about his abilities. He hadn’t been the best in school—a solid 75th percentile at best. His skills lay in plodding along at a steady rate, and his optimism in reaching the finish line sometime, if not necessarily first or best, but he’d get there.

Lab technician was a fallback. Sitting around in his underpants eating ramen and calling himself a film maker had gotten old fast, and it was get a job or develop scurvy. With a little remedial math—he was pretty good at math, if he did say so himself—he got into the lab tech program at NYU, and after his first pathology class, he knew his specialization.

Dead bodies were so much cooler in real life than in the movies. And he was kind of good at it. Turned out that being comfortable cutting up dead people was an uncommon trait. 

He knew people who were that everyone-look-at-me-I’m-so-smart good at things—his older brother Gordon, for example. But Lucas was a flow with the river of life kind of guy, going where the muse took him, while Gordon was the one who’d steer the boat upstream, and win medals while doing it. He might have been the flashy successful one, but Lucas knew he’d have his moment someday. His movies were almost there, just needed a little polishing while he pulled in the cash with his day job.

And then he met Henry. Henry made pathology look like movie magic. And everyone respected his ability, even if they didn’t like him. Not that anyone hated him, they just thought he was weird—genius was seldom understood, and Lucas could totally identify. But it inspired him to do more with his job than just come in, do his work, and head home. He started studying on the side, brushing up his skills, and even earned himself a promotion through Lab Tech II straight into Lab Tech III. 

It wasn’t like he was totally selling out—he still worked on his movies, and was still drafting that graphic novel idea, but he kind of liked his job. If he wanted, he could make it a career, and he was okay with that. 

The lab was a good place to be, and for the first time Lucas could remember, he felt content where he was, a certain stability that he didn’t actually mind. They made a good team, him and Henry. Lucas might not be the lead character in their adventures, but Lucas was a solid sidekick to Henry’s superhero. And he was okay with that. While Henry lifted the heavy weights, Lucas was his Watson, his Girl Friday, the guy Henry turned to when he needed something done, and Lucas was there for him, every time. Henry wouldn’t be able to manage without him.

“Georgina!” Henry called out. “Have you finished that kidney biopsy? I can’t finish this without it!”

“Almost done,” Georgina replied. “Looking at the last slide now.”

“Excellent work, thank you.”

Okay, well he was at least in the top five solid sidekicks at Henry’s side. It was a start. And Georgina wasn’t going to last long anyway, she totally was going to transfer out west as soon as she finished her night classes. And then who’d still be there? That’s right, Lucas.

“Lucas. Earth to Lucas?”

“Hm?” Lucas blinked, and Henry was waving a blue-gloved hand in front of his face. 

“You’re staring again. Are you going to finish the stomach contents analysis or not?”

“Oh, sorry.”

“Are you—“ Henry’s expression locked in a sort of reluctant grimace, and then he cleared his throat. “Are you well? Everything alright?”

Lucas blinked in surprise, and then grinned. “Yeah, just daydreaming I guess. But thanks for asking. Yeah, I’m great.”

Henry looked like he was experiencing some sort of physical pain at Lucas’ response, and Lucas couldn’t help but smile wider. Henry’s inability to see how their friendship was growing was sort of cute. Like, in a completely socially inept way, but still sweet. He’d get used to it eventually. Lucas just had to keep chipping away at that tough British exterior. 

Because Lucas might be a lot of things, but he wasn’t a quitter. Henry returned to his work, and Lucas popped his earbud back in and continued freeing the stomach from the corpse on his table, humming along happily.


	29. Promise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abe is gone, and Jo is going to be there for Henry whether he likes it or not. If only she could get him to talk to her.

The day Abe died, Jo took the rest of the day off work. She didn’t think Henry had anyone else to be with him, so she took it upon herself to be there, even though he hadn’t asked.

The last two weeks of Abe’s downhill slide, Henry had taken time off work, and so near as she could tell, he’d spent every minute tending to Abe. She’d dropped in a few times to see how he was coping. Losing a father-figure, whether blood family or not, was a lot to handle, let alone being a sole caregiver on top of that.

Henry looked worn into the ground, his careful grooming slipshod and haphazard, and more than once his dress shirt was wrinkled as though he’d slept in it. She forced deli soup—she was no cook, there was no point torturing him with her attempts—and fruit baskets on him, and he’d smile and say thank you, and he’d try to get Abe to eat some. By the third time she’d barged her way in and poured some soup out into a bowl and sat there watching Henry eat, before a faint rustle of bedclothes from the cot in the living room caught his attention and he hurried off to attend to Abe. She’d let herself out, feeling the intruder on their privacy.

The business of death was more bureaucratic than anyone gave it credit for, and she was fairly certain Henry wouldn’t let a bit of it be left to other hands. Her suspicion was confirmed when the County ME’s number popped up on her call display.

“Hello?”

“Detective Martinez? It’s Lucas here. Um, Henry’s in, and he’s—look, I don’t want to be like, prying or anything, but—” Lucas’ voice cut off, and she heard the muffled sounds, and then Lucas returned, whispering. “He’s just kind of standing there. I don’t know what to do.”

“I’ll be right there.”

She hung up, grabbed her coat, and hurried out the office, leaving Hanson with a quick explanation and that she’d be back when she could.

 

***

Henry was beside Abe’s body when she made it there, standing at the side of the slab.

The morgue was eerily quiet; the staff had vanished except for Lucas, who was hovering anxiously at the farthest bench, looking like he had picked an awkward position and was now afraid to move. Jo caught his eye as she entered, and his shoulders dropped in relief. She indicated the door, and Lucas nodded, hurrying out to give them privacy. 

She came to the opposite side of the slab from Henry, looking down into Abe’s still face. It was wrong to see such animated, warm features gone grey and slack. She swallowed down the sting of her own grief. Abe had been kind, and the strong bond between him and Henry had endeared him to her greatly. She’d liked him, and his death touched her more than she’d expected.

“Henry?” She spoke quietly, not certain he’d even noticed her.

He looked up. “Detective.”

“I’d like to take you home.”

“Hm.” Henry looked back down at Abe. “Thank you, but I’m not ready to leave yet.”

She thought of her husband’s funeral, and standing over the open casket and trying to really wrap her mind around the fact that yes, it was him. She’d tried to burn the new reality into her brain, forcing aside the impossibility that he was gone, and still it refused to set in, as though her mind slipped sideways over the facts, dodging what was before her eyes. She nodded and pulled up a chair on her side of the slab, sharing Henry’s quiet vigil. She was willing to stay as long as he needed. 

Lucas must have worked some kind of unseen logistical magic, because the morgue remained empty and silent, granting them needed peace. But eventually the day wore on, and she gently told Henry they needed to leave. She was glad when he let her pull him away.

 

***

 

She picked up another deli meal on the way to the apartment, and when Henry didn’t object, she followed him in and arranged two plates. After they ate she poured each of them a hefty measure of whiskey, and they retired to the couch. 

Exhausted from the previous weeks and having eaten little, the liquor quickly set Henry’s eyes drooping. Jo nudged him on the arm when his head dipped towards his chest, and he sucked in a breath, blinking himself back to wakefulness.

“Why don’t you get some sleep? I’ll tidy up.”

This finally roused him, and a spark of the old Henry returned. He smiled and shook his head. “Jo, you don’t have to. Thank you for your kindness, but I’ll be fine.”

“I know.” She stood, and took his empty glass from him, and walked back into the kitchen, speaking to him over her shoulder as she went. “But it’s late, and the couch looks comfy, so as long as you’re not actually kicking me out, I’ll crash here. And I might as well be useful.”

Henry was silent as she tidied the dishes. She tried to ignore him as she crossed her fingers, hoping he wouldn’t actually ask her to leave. It was her sister that had barged her way into her home and spent the first three nights with Jo, just so the house wouldn’t be empty. She didn’t think Henry had any family. Not that she knew of, anyway. It was the least she could do.

She turned when she saw movement from the corner of her eye, and Henry stood next to her. 

“Thank you,” he said, voice gruff.

“You don’t have to thank me. I’m your friend, I want to be here.” 

She dried her hands on a towel and pulled him into a hug, before wondering if it was the right thing to do. Grief was so strange, such an individual thing. A hug could be desperately needed but unasked for, or a forced, unwelcome violation. Grief was equal parts sadness, anger, and denial, and acceptance, each taking their turn without warning. But Henry leaned into the hug and brought his arms around her to squeeze her tight, his breath catching once before he released her and pulled away, eyes red.

“Get some sleep,” she said, turning back to the dishes.

Henry nodded and drifted away up the stairs with a heavy tread. When he was out of sight, she leaned against the kitchen counter and wiped her damp eyes, glad she’d managed not to actually cry in front of Henry.

 

***

Detective work being what it was, she couldn’t stay the next day, and after making Henry promise he’d check in with her by phone around mid-day, she headed down to the precinct to review the details of their case and a suspect interrogation. By the time she was able to come up for air, a confession typed and redrafted and signed and squared away, it was afternoon and the early winter sun was already setting, and Henry had not called.

She tried the antiques shop number without much investment in the action, knowing that if Henry were upstairs in the apartment he would never hear it. As predicted, it clicked to an answering service. She sighed at the sound of Abe’s voice offering shop hours and asking her to leave a message, and she hung up before the beep.

It only took ten minutes to swing around that part of town, and even though she had a bit more paperwork to get through, she’d feel better checking in. 

 

***

 

She hadn’t received an answer when she knocked, so she’d tried the door to the store. She was surprised to find it unlocked, and let herself in, heading upstairs.

The apartment was a disaster. Stacks of books on counters and tables, cupboards emptied, paperwork in disarray. At first she wondered if the apartment had been broken into, but there were no missing valuables, or broken windows and locks. She took a quick walk through the apartment, and found more of the same mess in each room, as though a whirlwind had passed through.

She looked in Henry’s bedroom, but he wasn’t there either. The room was conspicuously tidy compared to the rest of the apartment, the only thing out of place a little brown wooden box, lid open, sitting on the edge of the bed with a few old pictures spread around it. Next to it, a half-packed suitcase. 

Jo poked at the suitcase and took a quick inventory—clothes, a change of dress shoes, the usual toiletries. And, most notably, three passports and a plane ticket. A ticket to Laos, of all places. One way.

Unable to stop herself, she flipped through the passports. Henry, with different stages of facial hair, and one where he’d bleached his hair a dirty blond. 

What the hell was going on? Cold, unpleasant fear and suspicion crept into her thoughts. She picked up one of the pictures on the bed, a black and white photo with tattered edges, well-worn with time. It was of Henry, a small toddler cradled in his arms, grinning down at the little boy. It looked like it was taken at a beach somewhere. She picked up another; Henry and an older boy—the same, from the looks of the features—seated at a piano, carefully picking out notes together. Henry was dressed like it was 1950, like Ward Cleaver or something. 

Jo grabbed a handful of pictures from the bed and leafed through them, each telling a stranger story than the last—the boy, growing up before her eyes, was clearly Abe. At times, a blonde woman was with them, most often not. And in most of the pictures, always the same but for clothes and hair, was Henry. They looked like random moments plucked out of history, and they pulled together in the strangest collage she could imagine.

It must have been Henry’s father? The resemblance was uncanny. Eerie, even. But as she flipped through old black and whites and polaroids from different eras, she noted that he never aged through the photos. She searched, looking for an older man, Henry as he might look at sixty, seventy, but it was the same face in changing times and fashions. 

She picked out a more recent snapshot. It looked like Henry and Abe, stood in front of the antiques shop, Henry’s arm about Abe and beaming with pride. A date stamp marked it as September 6th, 1995. Abe looked a spry younger version of himself, and Henry, in a horrible 90’s suit next to him looked the same as he did now. Twenty years prior, and not the teenaged boy he should have been. Nor could it have been his dad, as he’d have been older. 

Was this some kind of weird photoshop joke? It was an elaborate one, given the ratty state of the older photos, and their authentic look and feel. She stared at the colour photo, looking for the flaw that would give away the game. 

“Jo?”

She spun around to find Henry standing in the bedroom doorway, startled at her presence. He had a stack of little black notebooks in his hands. When he saw what she was holding, his expression went blank. 

“I came to check on you.” She gestured to the suitcase. “I guess now I know why I didn’t hear from you.”

He crossed to the suitcase and dumped the books inside it, and then very gently took the photo from her hand, looking at it a moment before he scooped the rest of the photos on the bed together and put them in the box. He shut it and tucked it under his arm. 

“Henry, you want to tell me what the hell is going on here?” She waved a hand over the suitcase, and pointed to the box under his arm. “And what that is?”

Henry took a breath and pivoted towards her with a smile. Charming, calm, and false. 

“I need to get away for a bit. Get some space, clear my head. I’m going to take a trip.”

“One way, by the looks of it,” Jo said. “With some pretty sketchy paperwork.” 

He followed her gaze to the suitcase, open with the three passports lying on top next to the open plane ticket folder. He closed his eyes.

“Jo, please.” 

She could see the deep lines of exhaustion. Henry would not have been the first to do strange things in the face of grief, but this was a little too out there for her to make sense of.

Jo glanced to the suitcase again. “Whatever this is, it’s not right. I don’t know what you’re doing, or trying to prove, but you have to accept that Abe is gone—“

“I know he’s gone!” Henry snapped. “I understand more deeply than you can possibly imagine. My comprehension of how precisely finite and _over_ his life is—” He bit off the rest and shook his head, fighting a wave of emotion. “I thought we’d have more time, I thought—I—” He sat heavy on the edge of the bed, placing the box in his lap, hands spread flat on the top. 

“I though I’d have more time,” he said again, then looked up at her with that bland, polite smile. “Sorry for my outburst. I appreciate your concern, but it’s fine.” 

“You’re not immune to normal human emotion.” She sat on the bed next to him and put a hand on his back.

His mouth twisted in a wry half-smile. “I suppose not.” He looked down at his hands covering the box. “I wasn’t ready for this. I don’t suppose I ever was going to be.”

Jo bit her lip. “Henry, who was Abe? To you, I mean?”

Henry glanced at her, his smile tightening, and he shook his head without answering. 

“Was he your father?”

He swallowed hard and clenched his hands, fingers curling on the wood.

She sighed and took one of his hands in hers. “Whatever is going on, you can tell me. Trust me, okay?”

He wove his fingers in hers and squeezed her hand tight, but said nothing.

Her patience was wearing thin, and though she didn’t want to press him, she felt she had no choice. “And those pictures? Can you please help me understand? It’s a little—I don’t know. It’s not quite the tribute project I’d expect to someone who’s just passed.”

When he failed to speak again, she pulled her hand away and stood.

“I don’t understand why you’d do this. It’s—“ she waved her hand, looking for any word that wasn’t _crazy_ , “not a typical way of dealing with grief, you know?”

She knelt down at his feet and look up into his face. His eyes were slightly unfocused, with the air of someone lost in memories. 

“Abe was a concentration camp survivor,” he said at last. “Found as an infant in the carnage of it all. He was born, surviving one of the worst atrocities man has conceived, and—and then something as simple as cancer kills him. It doesn’t seem fair.”

“Please, Henry. I want to understand.”

Jo had to stand and backpedal when Henry rose from the bed abruptly and opened the suitcase, and put the box inside. He rearranged the contents to accommodate the books he’d dumped in, and closed it, grabbing the handle. She could feel him retreating into himself, closing off, and had the chilling feeling that if she couldn’t stop it, she wouldn’t see him again. She couldn’t watch him every moment, and the suitcase, the passports, it all said that when he left, he wouldn’t let himself be found.

Jo reached out and held his hand down to stop him from picking it up. “No, Henry. Whatever you think you’re doing, stop. You can’t run away from this.”

He closed his eyes, pained, clenching his teeth in frustration. “Jo, _please._ ”

“Talk to me, Henry!” she snapped. “Give me a chance. Here, let me put on my Henry Morgan ‘least judgemental person you’ll ever meet’ hat.” She mimed putting a hat on her head, and then threw up her hands. “Okay? I’m listening. But I swear to god, if it turns out to be you and Abe were running an international drug cartel, I’m going to be pissed.”

Henry’s jaw dropped, and then to her utter relief, he burst out laughing. “No drug cartel, I promise.”

“Okay, good.” She nodded, and sat again on the bed. “Look, I know it’s not the same—it’s never exactly the same, I get that—but when my husband died, I wanted to run away and not look back. I get it, you know? But Abe wouldn’t want you to do this. He wouldn’t want to see you throw everything away, not because of him.”

His guilty, anguished look was enough to confirm her suspicions that he wasn’t intending to come back. “You don’t understand.”

“But I could, if you let me.”

A thick silence fell on the room, and she could see Henry ticking through his thoughts rapid-fire, struggling with some decision.

“Abe wanted me to tell you,” he said at length. “Never stopped talking about it, towards the end.”

Jo’s heart pounded as she waited, hairs on the back of her neck standing on end. There was more to this than his loss, and her concern warred with an instinctive caution at his tone, the sort she got before a suspect’s confession. As so often was the case with Henry, she felt like she was missing six pieces of the puzzle. Was she about to get the whole picture?

“Come here.”

Without warning, he pulled her up off the bed by one hand and wrapped her in a tight hug. 

“Oh. Okay, sure.” She hugged him back, a little surprised.

He patted her side as he released her. The gaunt lines of stress had returned on his face, and he stuck his hands in his pockets before walking towards the doorway.

“Come with me.” 

She followed him into the hall, and he held up a finger as they passed Abe’s room. He popped in the door for a moment, and then back out before she could follow him in, and then led her downstairs.

“Have a seat,” he said.

As she sat at the kitchen table he rifled the cupboard, finally producing a bottle of red wine. He uncorked it and fetched two fancy wine glasses from the china cabinet in the living room, and poured two large glasses at the kitchen counter. He brought them to her at the table and set one in front of her.

Jo waited, and Henry swirled his glass around vigorously, clearly gearing himself up for something.

“The first time I told anyone, she had me locked up in an asylum.”

Jo took a large swig of wine. “Okay. How about I promise I won’t do that?”

“Doubtful you’ll get the chance,” he muttered as he lifted the glass to his lips. 

He took a long swallow, and another, and in short order drained the whole nearly-full glass of wine. Jo winced, wanting to protest, but Henry was finally talking, and she didn’t want to ruin it. Let himself find courage in a bottle if he needed to. He grimaced and shuddered, and then caught his breath.

“Live and learn,” he said, laughing at own words, which were clearly a joke in his mind. He focused on her again. “I’m sorry for this, Jo.”

She sat forward in her chair, putting her elbows on the table. “You don’t have anything to apologize for.”

He looked at her with pity. “I will.”

They sat in silence for a minute or two while Henry collected himself, and Jo sipped at her wine, determined to let him start speaking when he was ready. He nodded finally, and then uncrossed his legs, sitting straight and turning his attention to her.

“First things first, as soon as I’m gone, I want you to go to the river. About half a mile southwest of the Brooklyn Street Bridge, west bank. Understand?”

She frowned. “What? Where are you going?”

“Jo, have you got it?” He tapped a finger on the table. “It’s important. It’s cold outside at this time of year.”

She nodded, bewildered. If this had been his approach before, she could kind of understand whoever sent him packing to the hospital. Henry wasn’t exuding mental stability at the moment. “Okay, okay. I’ve got it.”

“Good.” He blinked, and then rubbed his eyes. “Oh, that’s fast. Okay, moving right along.” He looked up at her, a bit bleary. “Abe is my son. Was. Was my son.”

She gave him an odd look, disturbed by the serious expression and level delivery. “Henry. Stop screwing with me. It’s not funny.”

He chuckled, and it had a wild quality to it. “The woman—Abigail. His mother.” He saw the recognition on her face. “Yes, my Abigail.” He rubbed his eyes. “I married her, we adopted him. Raised him.”

“Henry—“

“The pictures, they’re of me—“

“Don’t—”

“—every one of them.” 

“Stop it,” she snapped, her stomach twisting unpleasantly.

He fell silent finally, and rubbed at his face hard. Jo took the opportunity to take another sip of her wine, stalling for time. Wherever Henry was going with his story, she was lost, a little frightened, and a lot concerned. 

“Well?” he asked.

She put her glass down. “Well what, Henry? What am I supposed to say to that?”

“Anything you like.” Henry was slurring his words, and his elbow thunked on the table. “I don’t age, I can’t die permanently, I was born in 1779 and I’m still here. He was my son, and now he’s gone, and I miss him. I’ll miss him forever.” His face collapsed into misery, and he put his head on the table.

His breathing was heavy, and his rambling words were a mess, and Jo leapt to her feet in alarm. She shook him by the shoulder. “Henry? Henry, are you okay?”

He managed to sit up, but he was sluggish and disoriented. His pupils were dilated, his skin clammy and sweaty. He reached in his pocket and pulled out a little bottle and dropped it on the table. She picked it up—morphine. Liquid morphine, more than enough to kill a man. From Abe’s end of life palliative care? Is this what he’d done in Abe’s room?

She shook the bottle in his face, then threw it on the table and smacked his cheek to try and get his attention. “Henry, did you drink this? Henry? Henry!” She dug in her pocket for her cell. “Oh my god, I’m calling an ambulance.”

He smiled sleepily. “I took your telephone. You won’t find it. I’ll die before you can get to another. Don’t worry, I’ll see you at the river.”

Jo grabbed him by the lapels and shook him. “Henry, why? Why did you do this?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I didn’t. Lots of time to think,” he mumbled, trailing off into insensibility. “Wrists? Too slow. Who would believe me? Who’d—“

Henry’s eyes rolled back, and his head lolled as he fell unconscious. Jo released him and he slumped back in the chair. She spun around, trying to think. She had to do something. How long did she have? He was a doctor, and she didn’t think his timing was an idle threat. What was she supposed to do?

She grabbed him by the arms and pulled hard, dragging him to the ground. His loose limbs fell haphazardly, and she manhandled him into the recovery position, and then stuck her finger down his throat. He wasn’t breathing. She tried again, and a weak gag, but nothing came up.

“Come on, Henry, my god. Please, don’t do this! You stupid idiot, don’t you die on me!” 

Again, but nothing. She rolled him to his back, pinched his nose and breathed into his mouth. She braced her hands on his sternum to start CPR. One, two three—

She fell forward, hands driving into the bare floor, sending jarring pain up her arms. She flung herself backward with a screech. 

Henry was gone. Completely, thoroughly _gone_.

It took her at least two minutes to stop hyperventilating, and check that there was still a morphine bottle laying on the table next to two glasses of wine—one tipped over and empty, the other full and barely touched.

She scrambled to her feet and fled the apartment, digging for her car keys in her pocket. It was insane, but she didn’t know what else to do.

 

***

 

She drove to the Brooklyn Bridge and parked, not even bothering to lock her car, and started running down the waterfront path.

What was she even doing? She had no idea, but she was going to run the length of the shore, and then probably throw up because she couldn’t remember the last time she’d run that far, and then she was going to break something and lose her mind, and maybe send herself to an asylum.

“Took you long enough.”

She almost fell as her momentum carried her on even when her feet stopped. Henry was sitting on a bench, stark naked and wet, shivering in the cold night air—she’d almost missed him on the far side of the river path, her eyes so focused on the water and rocky shore. He was covering himself modestly with his hands, and he nodded towards her. 

“Mind if I borrow your jacket?”

He waited patiently until she stripped it off and handed it to him, and he wrapped it around his midsection like a towel. “Not a fashionable solution, but good enough to keep me from getting arrested again.” He smiled. “Abe would bring me clothes, if I could get to a pay phone and reach him. Or borrow a cell phone. It was a fifty-fifty crack if they’d call the police or not.” He looked at her, and wiped a drip of river water from his forehead before it dripped into his eyes. “I’m sorry, Jo.”

 _I’m sorry, Jo_. Like he’d forgotten her birthday, or knocked her with a door, or broke her favourite mug. I’m sorry didn’t cover situations like this. She tried to find any response, but instead started to cry. She couldn’t help it. She wasn’t really a crier, and she didn’t want to be one now, but it all piled up and out it came in a rush. She walked away a few paces, staring up at the sky, at the low cloud layer reflecting the orange and yellow glow of city light. 

Henry waited quietly behind her, not coming near, and she eventually managed to get herself under control. She turned back to him, hands on her hips, not able to look directly at him. 

“So, you—“

“—Can’t die. Yes.”

“Ever?”

“Correct.”

She sniffed and wiped under her eye, clearing away her running makeup. “And Abe—“

“—Was my son. Yes.” He looked at her with concern as he shivered. “Are you alright?”

“Am I alright? No? Maybe? I don’t know.” She crossed arms, and eventually realized Henry was shivering, probably freezing in the night air. “Come on, let’s go back to the car.”

“An excellent idea,” he said through chattering teeth. 

They walked in silence back to the car, Henry’s bare feet padding along the cement quietly next to her. They got in the car, and it wasn’t until she started it up and cranked the heat to warm them both that she was able to speak.

“Who else knows?”

Henry chafed his arms, trying to beat the chill. He looked at her cautiously. “You know, now.”

Abe had known, of course. His son, who obviously noticed his dad wasn’t aging. And he’d wanted Henry to tell her. She couldn’t quite wrap her head around it. She kept glancing sidelong at Henry.

“How?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” he said with a shrug. “I was shot, and it didn’t take. It never does. I have no idea.”

They were silent for a while longer before she looked over at him again abruptly, at him sitting there with only her jacket around him. “Can I ask why you’re naked?”

“Because unfortunately, immortality does not come along with dignity,” he sighed.

She didn’t inquire further. This was all too weird, she really didn’t need anything to make it weirder.

They drove in silence back to the apartment, and Henry disappeared into his room to dress quickly before coming back, drying his hair with a towel, his feet still bare. He sat next to her on the couch.

“I am sorry,” he said at last. “For frightening you.”

Jo nodded, accepting the apology automatically. She was in a post-emergency blank state, with her body having wrung every emotion from her already, leaving her calm and numb. 

“I probably wouldn’t have believed you, you’re right about that,” she said, and then looked from him to the spot on the floor where she’d tried to revive him. “I’m not sure I believe it anyway.”

“I could do it again,” he offered.

“Henry, don’t even joke about it,” she said, closing her eyes.

He silently dried his hair some more, then threw the towel over the back of the couch.

“Doesn’t it hurt?” she asked.

“Every time.” He looked over to the kitchen table, and the wine glasses. “Some ways less than others. That was just like falling asleep.” He smiled faintly. “The river was much more unpleasant than the morphine.” 

She reached out to grab him, pulling him towards her. “Come here.”

He shuffled close, looking confused, and then she wrapped her arms around him. She didn’t know if it was for him, or for herself. He rested his head on her shoulder and sighed as he returned the embrace. He started to shake, and despite herself, she felt tears stinging her eyes again.

“You don’t have to leave,” she said. “You can stay.”

“I will have to. I can preserve the illusion a few more years by bleaching grey into my hair, but eventually I always have to leave.”

She closed her eyes and leaned her head against the side of Henry’s. “But that’s not now. I’m talking about here, and now—you don’t have to go. Not yet. Not like this.”

“I’ll think about it,” he allowed, his breath warm through her sweater as he spoke into her shoulder.

She squeezed him tight. “Okay. That’s better than nothing.”

They stayed like that for a while, and then Henry left for a few minutes to fetch the box of photos. They sat close on the couch while Henry pulled out picture after picture, telling stories about his life with Abe, sometimes making her laugh, sometimes leaving her silent and confused, not sure if she was listening to memories or delusion. Jo had no idea what to say or how to take any of it, but at least Henry was talking, and that was a good start.

And he wasn’t leaving. The rest of it, they’d figure it out, in time. Seemed like there was plenty of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have some stuff going on tonight and am probably going to be too fried to remember to post this later. I can't believe this is 5200 words. Editing time was a bit tight, so if there are spelling errors/major problems, let me know.


	30. Sunset

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don't knock it until you've tried it, Hanson.

“How was drinks?” Ellen called out as Hanson opened the door.

Hanson threw his bag down by the front door and kicked off his shoes as he came in. “Fine,” he called back to his wife. “Good to see some people outside work. Thanks for staying in with the kids.”

Ellen was in the kitchen fixing a cup of tea. He gave her a kiss on the cheek as he went by before collapsing in a chair at the kitchen table.

“You okay?” she asked.

“Yeah, just a weird day.” He shook his head. “Not your average kind of case.”

Ellen poured the boiling water in her cup and brought it to the table. “Anything you can talk about?”

Hanson scratched his head, feeling a little flustered. “Well, it’s—hm. What do you know about S&M?”

Ellen put the cup down on the table.

 

***

 

“You read this?” Hanson flipped through the book, and the phrase _inner goddess_ caught his eye, along with—whoa. “Oh my god, I feel dirty just looking at it.”

“I read all three.” She plucked the book out of his hands. “Don’t judge it till you tried it.”

Hanson eyed the grey tie on the cover. “Are you saying we should—you know?”

Ellen shrugged.

 

***

 

“Ow! Jesus, that hurts!”

Ellen looked down at him with a frown. “I smacked you with a belt, what did you think was going to happen?”

“I don’t know. No, stop!” Hanson flinched again as Ellen raised her arm.

“The word is ‘pomegranate.’ You’re supposed to say ‘pomegranate’ if you want me to stop.”

“Pomegranate! A whole goddamn case of pomegranates!”

Ellen sat next to him on the bed and dropped the belt. She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “Sorry, baby.”

Hanson sighed and dropped his head back on the bed. “I think I’m going to have a bruise.”

“Hang on, I have to get the scissors—the knot on this tie is impossible.”

“But I like these ties!” he called out to her as she left the bedroom. “Wait, Ellen? Ellen!”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I freely admit this has nothing to do with sunset other than the fact that Hanson comes home at night.
> 
> And Ellen is reading 50 Shades of Grey, in case the reference isn't clear.


	31. Future

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who ever thought they'd see the day when Henry Morgan hosted the office Christmas party?

Lucas hopped down off the chair, surveying his work. The mistletoe was just high enough not to be intrusive, but definitely noticeable. Perfect.

It was bad luck to hang mistletoe and then not have anyone kiss under it, so he’d have to make sure something was done about that.

“Lucas? Can you help carry out these trays?” Henry called from the kitchen.

“Coming!” 

He hurried in and grabbed the warm tray of nibbles that Abe had pulled from the oven, and took them out to the living room with the arranged buffet tables. If you asked him three years ago if he ever thought he’d see the day where he saw the inside of Henry Morgan’s home—let alone was in it for a work Christmas party—he’d have laughed himself sick. 

And now here he was carrying hors d’oeuvres around and helping set up glasses. Life was so awesome sometimes.

He crossed paths with Henry in the doorway, having to dodge him left, then right, and each of them blocking each other with every step. Henry stopped with a sigh, and glared at Lucas.

And that’s when Lucas remembered, and looked up. Henry followed his gaze.

“No,” Henry said firmly, and dodged around him before Lucas could say anything.

 

***

 

The party was in full swing when Hanson arrived with his family. He and Ellen took a look around, making a quick joint survey of what the kids were going to break first, and drawing up a quick battle plan. Fast entry, do the socializing, then run as soon as the kids were stuffed full of treats and hit the sugar rush.

Sure enough, the two kids made a beeline for the table covered in holiday treats. Lily shoved a whole tart in her mouth, and handed Oliver a cookie, as he was still too short to see over the edge of the table. 

Ellen went to get them drinks, and next thing he knew he looked around to see Oliver, sticky with cookie crumbs and chocolate chips, run into Henry’s leg over where he was talking with Jo. He could see it coming already—the distaste, and the dry cleaning bill he was going to be fronting for Henry’s frou-frou suit pants. Hanson winced, ready to run across the room and pull Oliver off Henry.

To his surprise, Henry knelt down and started chatting with Oliver. He smiled at Oliver’s response to his question, and with the air of someone used to the world of children, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped Oliver’s hands and face while they talked.

Hanson crossed his arms and watched. Apparently there was more to the good doctor than he thought. When nothing seemed to be going terribly wrong, he decided this was his best opportunity to go get a beer. 

 

***

 

Lucas moved through the clusters of people, hovering around the edges and pitching in on conversations here and there, then moving on to make sure he got to say hi to everyone. 

And, when no one was really paying attention, maybe snooping a bit to have a look around to see what Henry’s house was like. He and Abe certainly had a classy thing going on. We wondered if Abe was an uncle, or a friend, or what the deal was, and with a bit of curiosity poked his head through the doorway to watch Abe uncorking a bottle of wine at the counter.

“Excuse me.”

Lucas turned and saw Hanson behind him. “Hey, Detective Hanson! Great to see you here.”

He saw Hanson’s eyes go up, and then back to Lucas, who was still standing blocking the doorway. 

“No way,” he said, and pushed past Lucas. “I need at least three beers before we get there.”

 

***

 

“You’re good with kids,” Jo said.

Henry stood up as the little one ran away with the origami flower Henry had made out of a napkin. “This is a wonderful age. One of my favourites, truth be told. I know you’re not supposed to pick, but it’s a delightful developmental stage. The start of reasoning, a burst of creativity, and so much energy.”

The little boy ran after his sister, with Hanson in hot pursuit, beer in one hand and trying to stop them from knocking over the buffet table with the other, as they raced past. 

Jo sighed. “I never thought much about having kids before. Now—I don’t know. Probably not going to happen.” 

“Children change your life in unexpected ways,” Henry said, and took a sip of his drink.

She glanced at him, at the warm, almost nostalgic smile, and was too curious to restrain herself from asking. “You have kids in your life?”

He licked his lips, and then nodded hesitantly. “I have a son.”

Her mouth dropped open. “You’re kidding.” At his raised eyebrow, she shook herself and remembered her manners. “I’m sorry, I didn’t—um.”

He laughed at her flustered surprise. “It’s fine. I understand.”

Abe was floating around with a wine bottle, filling glasses, and he approached them just as Jo asked, “So how old is your son?”

Abe jerked his head up to look up at Henry just as he was pouring wine into Jo’s glass, and he slopped it over the side and it splashed on her hand and the floor. “Oh! I’m sorry!”

“No worries,” Jo said, taking the napkin Henry dashed to get and wiping herself off while Henry got the spill on the floor. “At least it’s not carpet, right?”

“Er, yeah,” Abe said. “Sorry to interrupt your conversation.”

“It’s not a problem,” Henry said, collecting the dirty napkins. “And to answer your question, Jo—well, he’s a bit older than Hanson’s children.”

Abe snorted loudly. “Just a bit.”

Jo looked between them, wondering how early a start Henry had made. Probably best not to ask. “Are you close?”

Henry nodded. “Very. He’s a wonderful person.”

“Any other surprises you’re going to drop on me?” she asked.

Henry smiled. “Not today, no.”

Abe cleared his throat. “Yeah, well, I’ve got to get back to the kitchen. I’ve got a few more hors d’oeuvres to bring out.”

“Let me give you a hand. I can throw these away,” Henry said, indicating the wad of wine-soaked napkins in his hand. He gave Jo a formal little bow. “If you’ll excuse me.”

Jo watched Henry and Abe walk away. Abe patted him on the back, and as they retreated she heard him say, “Baby steps. I like it.”

Henry laughed, and put an arm around Abe. The doorbell rang, and Henry dumped the trash and headed to the door.

 

***

 

Reece made it to the party an hour in, and though the fondant flowers and decorations on the gateau were a little worse for wear from the car trip over, it would still do.

It was Dr. Morgan who answered the door. He beamed at her, and then looked down at the platter in her hands.

“Oh, that is beautiful,” he remarked.

“Thank you.” 

He looked at her with surprise, and a twist of a half-smile. “Did you made it? You’re a master decorator as well as all your other talents?” 

He gave her an appraising scan head to toe, and if her hands weren’t full, she was pretty sure she’d have punched him. 

“Truly a woman of hidden talents,” he said, with a smarmy tone that she assumed he thought was charming.

She could probably still kick him in the balls without dropping the gateau. It was tempting. 

“Dr. Morgan, please move aside.”

“Oh! Yes, of course. Please come in.”

She indulged herself in one last consideration of a swift punt, and then walked past him. God save her from quirky lab geeks. She had yet to meet anyone from the ME’s office who was halfway well adjusted. Then again, it took a certain type to be so enthusiastic about working with dead bodies all day, every day. 

As she made her way in, she noticed some smart-ass had hung mistletoe in the doorway. Oh boy. It was going to be one of _those_ office Christmas parties.

She passed the lab assistant, Lucas, in the doorway coming out of the kitchen as she was going in. She saw him glance up at the mistletoe, then back at her with a terrified yet determined look.

“Not a chance,” she said, and continued into the kitchen.

“Okay, yeah,” he said behind her. “Merry Christmas.”

He fled into the living room while she put the gateau on the counter, handing it over to Abe.

 

***

 

Lily ran up to Hanson, brandishing something in her fist. “Daddy, look! Look was Dr. Morgan gave me!” 

In her hand as a little glass horse, sturdy enough to not shatter, but the kind of sparkly bobble that drew his daughter in wherever they went. 

“Hey, that’s great! Pretty thing. Why don’t you give it to Mom and she can keep it safe for you.”

Lily ran off in search of Ellen, and Hanson scratched his head. He looked around and spotted Henry, and made his way through the room full of chatting folks. Henry held out his hand and Hanson took it, giving it a shake.

“Lily showed me the little horse—you didn’t have to do that.”

Henry smiled and shrugged. “It will see more love than sitting on my shelf gathering dust.” 

“Well, thanks. They’re both having a great time.” 

“My pleasure. It’s nice to have children in the house. Haven’t done for a long time.”

Hanson narrowed his eyes. Man, this dude made him so curious sometimes. One day he’d have to sit him down, line up a bunch of shots, and see if he could get the doctor talking. Now that would be an interesting evening. 

Before Henry could wander off to chat with others, Hanson clinked his wedding ring on the glass of his beer bottle loudly. The general conversation died down and he raised a hand to call everyone’s attention over. Henry looked at him curiously.

“Okay okay, short speech. I just want to say a thanks to Doctor Morgan for letting us all trash his place for the party.”

There was clapping and a fair bit of laughter, and Henry tipped his head in formal thanks, looking a little embarrassed, and giving Hanson a quick and dirty look. Apparently he didn’t like to be the center of attention. Funny, for a guy who stood out like a sore thumb everywhere he went.

“Anyway, it’s great to see you all, and it’s been another excellent year. Here’s to another to come!”

Hanson raised his beer up and everyone did the same. As they all turned back to their conversations and the hum of socializing rose again, Hanson turned back to Henry and gave him a thump on the back, and then clinked his bottle with Henry’s fancy cognac glass.

“Thanks again, Doc. Great to be working with you.”

“You too, Detective.”

 

***

Lucas took his drink for the toast and grinned. To another good year ahead indeed. This was the first time he’d really felt like a part of a group like this, and it was good people, and he really felt pretty damned lucky.

Detective Martinez passed him on the way to the kitchen, cheeks pink from the warm room and maybe a glass or two of wine, and she smiled at him, and he grinned back, because the world was great and it was going to be another good year for Lucas Wahl, he just knew it. 

On her way back out of the kitchen with a glass of water, she looked up and spotted the mistletoe.

“Oh! Whoops, missed it on the way in.”

She stood on tiptoe and smacked a kiss on Lucas’ cheek, and then with a wink walked on. Lucas choked a little, and coughed, and then she was past him and gone.

Oh my god, this was the _best party ever_.

 

***

 

Once the food was all out, and everyone’s glasses filled, Abe grabbed himself a glass of wine and made his way over to Henry, who was standing on the edge of the room and surveying the goings on. He had a way of dropping into the background when he wanted to, as though there was some kind of force field he could put up that made him invisible.

“Nice shindig,” Abe said as he came to stand next to Henry.

“Well, thank you for your assistance. I, for one, cannot believe I agreed to this.” 

“C’mon, Jo was right—no one else has room in the city to do this, and office parties in offices are depressing.”

Henry sighed. “Yes, I suppose so.”

Henry was scanning the room continuously, eyes sharp for anyone looking too interested in their home. They’d scoured the house for items that would remotely suggest anything about Henry’s history—not that there was much, most of their photos were locked away in a little box in Henry’s laboratory—but Henry was still a bit on edge. Even so, Abe couldn’t imagine him letting this happen even six months ago. Talk about progress.

And for all he would probably deny it if Abe said anything, he looked happy. He was actually enjoying himself. Henry liked people; it was probably why he paid so much attention to them, with all his little prying observations and careful studying. It wasn’t the first time Abe thought about it, but Henry in particular being the person to be saddled with his condition was particularly cruel. The constant distance he held himself at must have been a tough one to learn, for a guy who had such a soft heart.

But it was time for him to let down that barrier, and accept some new people in his circle, and after tonight, Abe had some hope.

“Hey, Henry.” He nudged Henry in the side, and held up his glass when Henry looked at him. “Here’s to the future, huh?”

Henry blinked, and it took him a moment to work through his thoughts before his face softened into a warm smile. 

He raised his own glass, clinking it against Abe’s. “To the future.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, this is the last one. This has been a crazy project, and thank you to every single person who has read, reviewed, left kudos, and been so kind to me over the past month. You are all wonderful - this is a great fandom to be a part of. Thank you!

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was included on [Forever Fan Podcast](http://foreverfanpodcast.com/)'s [fanfiction episode](http://foreverfanpodcast.com/foreverfanfictionepisode/).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Unbroken Cycle](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2684186) by [Cumberbatch Critter (ivelostmyspectacles)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivelostmyspectacles/pseuds/Cumberbatch%20Critter)




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